Suddenly Sixties

I'm so happy...except when I'm not

2012-01-07T11:40:00.001-06:00

Can a person be happy and uhappy at the same time? Especially when that person is happily married to the kindest, most generous man on earth and has two lovely and talented daughters, both married to men who cherish them, and twin grandwons who make her beam with love? Even when she lives in a spacious townhome in an very nice suburb? Even when she's lucky enough to have a job that pays well, offers camaraderie, and gives her an opportunity to be creative?

To be accurate, I have my moments. Moments of wondering what it's all about, what I'm going to be when I grow up, what I need to do to feel as if I'm making some mark on the world. Moments of worry when something comes up that disturbs a family member or close friend. Moments of thinking about aging and wondering what ailment that usually affects those over 65 will finally get me.

And then the moments pass. They pass because I get up to get ready for a lively lunch with good friends or a party to celebrate something or other or even a trip to the grocery store. Or I just get up and do something. You'd think by now I would have learned that lesson: Don't just lie there brooding. Do something!

Sundays are the worst―that is, the Sundays with no obligations, no plans. After enjoying "Sunday Morning" on CBS and reading the multi-section Chicago Tribune, I get into a slump. I tell myself I'm sleepy or achy, and I resort to napping or playing Boggle on the iPad.

To add credence to the idea that this is a grown-up version of the teenage whine, "I'm bored. There's nothing to do," here's what happened one Sunday when I was still in my pajamas, snacking for the third time that day, at 2:30 in the afternoon. The phone rang. It was my daughter.

"Hi, Mom. What are you doing?" (Did I really have to tell her?)

"Nothing, really. Why?"

"Wanna meet me in Old Orchard [a north suburban shopping mall]?"

The transformation was instant. I promised to meet her in 45 minutes, then accomplished the necessary grooming in record time. I had energy. I was smiling. I was happy!

We had a wonderful afternoon, shopping and eating and talking. And I was basking in the knowledge that my daughter initiated this outing. She wanted to spend time with me.

It doesn't take much to dispel the blues when life is otherwise going well. The solution, therefore, should be easy:

Make plans (Sunday brunches, maybe?)
Get a hobby (one that I'll stick with beyond buying all the equipment and gear)
Volunteer (I know, I know...someday I'll do that)
Exercise! (Seems to be the cure for almost everything)

And if you're a daughter or son reading this, call your mother. Ask her to go shopping. It's a miracle cure.

Mindless eating and pants that don't fit

2011-12-30T14:27:00.000-06:00

I’ve finally managed to analyze my eating habits. Or, rather, my reasons for requiring larger sizes in most of my clothing.

I eat when I’m hungry. I eat when I’m bored. I eat when I’m challenged. The only times I don’t eat are when I’m sleeping, already really full from a meal or snack, or doing something that I feel confident I can complete successfully.

Today, at work, I sat at my desk anguishing over the editing of a new online course that is not going well. To pull myself away from the aggravation, I got up to go to the bathroom. It’s a far enough walk that I get to stretch my legs and put some distance between my brain and the computer monitor.

On the way back from the bathroom, I wondered if there were any sweet snacks around. Then I got serious with myself, and asked (in my head), “Are you really hungry after that big lunch?” The answer was no, and I understood that I was reacting to the prospect of going back to that miserable task.

Besides, when I snack at my desk, it's a waste of calories. I keep my eyes on the keys and the monitor and intermittently reach for a bite of granola bar or a few peanuts. Suddenly, I reach, and there's nothing to grab. I've just eaten the whole thing without realizing it. Worse, without savoring it. At that point, I may not be really hungry, but I feel deprived of the pleasure of the snack.

Now that it's almost the last day of the year, I vow to be more mindful of why I'm craving food next year and, more important, I must come up with better ways to satisfy what I'm really craving.

I want to be able to wear my smaller size pants, now relegated to the back of the closet, by March. I have one more day this year to figure out how I'm going to make this change and get it to stick. Until then, I'm going for a Nature Valley Almond Crunch bar. No, I'm still not really hungry. I just like Almond Crunch bars.

Seeking advice, or confirmation?

2011-12-21T12:23:00.001-06:00

I'm a life-long advice junkie. You'd think that at my advanced age—face it...it's advanced in the eyes of the Millenials—I would trust my accumulated knowledge and not have to seek so much wisdom from magazine articles and online forums. You'd think wrong.

Never mind that I'd probably be able to write my own articles on, for example, "How to Write Effective Marketing Copy," or "What Not to Wear Tips for 60-Plus." I still seek helpful hints on these and many other topics from published gurus.

Never mind that, much of the time, I read these articles and think, "I knew that!" But I'm usually expecting someone else to have a better idea, or two or three. I do find a few better ideas, but most often I find ideas I knew once (because I read them in an article long ago) and eventually forgot.

Some of my favorite information sources are—

Real Simple, an email newsletter related to the publication, usually highlighting decorating tips, organization ideas (my most frequent clicks), recipes, and more
Real Age, the web site run by Dr. Oz and Dr. Roizen
Marcia Yudkin's e-newsletter, The Marketing Minute (she's amazing)
Vibrant Nation, a wonderful web site I recommend to my friends. It covers topics related to women over 50, and nothing is too sacred or sensitive to be discussed. Besides the post by the featured writer, I read all the responses from others, looking for even more ideas.

Some examples of article titles that get my attention:

"5 keys to bright, beautiful eyes after 50"

"Top Ten Foods that Lower Cholesterol"

"Quick and Easy Closet Makeover"

"What to Do About Those Chin Hairs"

Very seldom do I find something I want to adopt immediately. But still, I pore over the list just in case.

I don't limit my advice-seeking to published articles. I'll shamelessly ask my friends, coworkers, and acquaintances what they use, do, or think about various things.

Maybe I can approach this is a different way and consider myself an information-gatherer. Sounds a lot better than advice junkie—or any kind of junkie!

UPDATE: Magenta phone comes home

2011-12-14T12:54:00.000-06:00

As a postscript to the most recent post, I'm happy (I think) to say that my lost phone is now back in its owner's possession.

I had thought I'd looked everywhere and traced all my actions since the last time I had the phone in my hand, but I forgot something. We went out to dinner last Thursday evening and sat in a booth. My purse was sitting beside me, along with my coat and scarf. At some point I rooted through the pile next to me to get something from my purse. It wasn't the phone, but I'm guessing the phone thought this would be as good an opportunity as any to make its escape. And escape it did. I didn't notice it sitting there, despite its shocking pink color.

When I finally came to my senses and called the restaurant, I was happy to hear, "Yep. We've got it!" So all is well, except...I was going to use my lost phone as an excuse to go shopping for a newer and better one. Maybe I'll do that anyway. In the meantime, I'd better get all those stored phone numbers transferred to my computer before my errant Razr phone decides to get into trouble again.

Where's my #&!* phone???

2011-12-13T12:42:00.001-06:00

I lost my cell phone. It's not in my purse, my car, my office, my bedroom, or the refrigerator. (I didn't actually look there for it, but you never know.) I'm not one of those people who hug a cell phone to their ears most waking hours. In fact, of the 500 minutes we have on our family plan, we use very few. But I've become so reliant on it, and now the cell phone is not alone in being lost.

I'm glad it's an old (very old by today's standards) model. A magenta Motorola Razr. It's not even a smart phone. In fact, I've always thought it was rather dumb. (Notice I didn't blame the user...) But it contains precious information: the cell numbers and sometimes home and office numbers of friends and relatives. I kept telling myself to record them in a document so that, if the phone died, I'd have them and be able to retype them into a new phone. Never happened. I add this to the long list of procrastinations that I've become infamous for.

I think I can hear some people saying "We got along fine for most of our lives without cell phones!" But think about it. We were able to cope while being away from home because we could always find a pay phone: in a booth on the street, in a supermarket, at municipal buildings, in the airport. Try finding one conveniently located now. And I know I had many moments when a cell would have made life so much easier. Two cases in point:

We were invited to a dinner party that required a long car trip. Admittedly, we left home a few minutes later than we should have. And then we encountered an unexpected traffic jam. This was Chicago, so "unexpected" is ludicrous on a Saturday evening. I got nervous, as I tend to, concerned that our hosts would wonder why we're not there and would worry about us. At the time, there were phone stations scattered along Lake Shore Drive, but I wondered if stopping to make the call and then trying to weave back into traffic would make us even later. A cell phone would have eased the worry and the angst.
We were picking up my daughter when she lived on a very busy street in a very busy and trendy north side neighborhood. Parking was not an option, so she was to wait downstairs in the lobby and watch for our car. Once again, traffic got the best of us, and we were much later arriving in front of the building than planned. Daughter was, to say the least, irritated. She had been waiting in the cramped lobby, peering out the window, and getting more and more annoyed. (Notice I didn't say "worried"...) Much later, when we had a mobile phone, we would call her when we were a few blocks away, and then she would come downstairs.

It's obvious, I view the value of the phone differently than someone much younger would. You don't hear me whining that, until I find the phone or get a new one, I can no longer text my friends and family, I can't take and email photos, and I can't ask my husband which brand of tonic water I should buy while standing in the grocery aisle. (To be fair, I don't text—yet.) I'm more concerned with those times when a call would alleviate worries, advise people to keep dinner warm, or provide a courtesy to someone who's expecting me.

So where in the world is my phone? By the way, don't try calling it. I had T-Mobile suspend my service for now, lest some unscrupulous person rack up charges for calls to far-away places. Before I give up and buy a new phone, I'm going to keep looking.

Accepting my quirks...finally

2011-12-12T18:16:00.002-06:00

I found something else about aging that’s a good thing: I’m confident enough to affirm my strengths and admit my weaknesses. As for those weaknesses, I don’t care what anyone thinks about them anymore! And, by the way, I prefer to call them lifelong quirks. Here are a few:

Yes, I get intimidated by math. So what? I can always hand the dinner check to someone else to figure out or whip out my trusty tip card.

Yes, I have trouble swallowing pills. You wanna’ make something of it?

No, I’m not fond of driving. You can ask me to meet you at the area mall, but don’t expect me to drive into the heart of the city…and like it. I’m especially averse to driving in snow. It terrifies me when there’s an inch or more of new-fallen snow on the ground and, despite ABS brakes, stability control, and an SUV’s handling of slippery roads, I still grip the wheel until my fingers turn white and I dread an impending stop sign or light.

No, I'm not a very good cook. I used to fret over it because I was brought up in an era in which women were supposed to cook and be good at it. My mother made wonderful meals. My grandmother (on the other side) satisfied us with a weekly Friday night Shabbas dinner. Delightfully delicious saturated fat. But now I have a husband who is a good cook and likes it. So why should I sweat over it? For company, we search through a folder of catering menus, although I like to add some home-cooked side dishes. I can handle casseroles and salads.

I've heard and believe that it's never too late to learn something new or change one's outlook. I also believe that the longer one is on this planet the harder it is to do either. So I'm not giving up on improving any of these quirks...even while accepting them. I'm just not getting my hopes up too high.

Anger management is for the birds

2011-12-12T18:15:00.000-06:00

You're never too old to learn new tricks. Even if those tricks don't offer anything of value to society or to yourself. My newest trick is learning to be an ace with the slingshot in Angry Birds.

My introduction to this addiction came from one of my twin 7-year-old grandsons. Being a word game aficionado (only crosswords and Boggle for me; I won't touch Sudoku), I never thought I'd get into this wordless app. Then I started playing it. With no strategy or forethought, I moved from Level 1 to Level 2, knocking out those nasty pigs like they were really my enemies. Soon I was hooked. Eventually, I completed all the levels of the first free Angry Birds app I downloaded and had to seek others. Now I'm working on Angry Birds Rio and, of all things, aiming at jeering monkeys!

As I shoot a bird high in the air and topple one little monkey, the critter gets shaken up and teeters on the edge of a wall. I scare myself as I shout, "Die already!"

Will learning this new skill (skill?) help prevent dementia? It seems to be the question on my mind in almost everything I do these days. We'll have to wait and see. I have read no reports of 90- and 100-year-olds with all their faculties who are noted Angry Bird champs.

Update: I completed Rio and have now started on Angry Birds Seasons. I'm still on Level 1, which starts with a winter backdrop—snowflakes falling all around the nasty green pigs (yes, again with the pigs!). Snowflakes, as you may know, put me in a snarly mood anyway, which can't hurt when I'm trying to annihilate a passel of pigs.

Regrets, I have a few...

2011-11-09T19:36:00.000-06:00

As I reflect on my life, I can’t help but revisit the things I wish I hadn’t eaten, breathed in, practiced, and gave in to during those younger, formative years.

Unhealthful things I wish I’d known were bad for me:

• All those times I ate my grandmother’s concoction of eggs, onions, chicken fat, and chicken livers. Mmmmmm. Clogged arteries.

• All those years I breathed in my parents’ cigarette smoke. (But, realistically, where was I going to go at 8 or 9?)

• Every candy bar (full size—no “fun” size available then) I stuffed into my mouth between meals. I couldn’t hide this fact from my mother because, being a good little citizen, I refused to throw the wrappers on the ground and I stuffed them in my pockets.

Things that turned out okay but might not have:

• Jumping off the rocks at one of the northside beaches and landing on a sandbar. The water was deep all around the sandbar. It wasn’t until that point that I realized I couldn’t jump back up on the shore. Not being a swimmer, I humbly let some friends pull me back. Why did I take such a foolish risk? All the other kids were doing it...

• Letting my friend talk me into getting into a car with two guys—strangers—we met on the miniature golf course. Nothing bad happened, but it sure could have.

• Allowing my mother to persuade me to switch my college major from pre-journalism to elementary education. The practical "wisdom" of the day was that teaching was the ideal profession for a woman: "You'll have the same hours and work days as your kids!" I ended up getting married, getting pregnant (we did it in that order in those days), and dropping out of teacher's college. But when I was ready to go back to finish my degree, I chose English—not quite journalism, but certainly closer. Where would I have taken it if I'd continued on my first path? Who knows? But at least I'm doing a lot of writing (mostly at work).

These are just the ones I can recall—or care to write about. But don't let this wistfulness fool you. Everything's worked out so far (knock on wood), and I'm going to make damn sure that continues, for as long as I can.

Trivial kvetching

2011-10-17T10:50:00.000-05:00

There are a bunch of petty annoyances that don’t matter much in the larger scheme of life but that I enjoy complaining about anyway:

• The Terms of Agreement that some websites and online groups make you click "I agree" to before giving you access. You click on the link to the terms, hoping to scan them quickly and agree so you can get on with whatever you want to do. The site comes up. You start scanning...but then you spot this line at the bottom: "Page 1 of 35 pages." Are they kidding? They know perfectly well that nobody, except a bored attorney, will read all 35 pages. So you just click "I agree" and hope that it doesn't come back to bite you. So far, so good. But it is annoying.

• Toilet paper in public bathrooms that can give you a paper cut…and in a very sensitive location. Come on, businesses. Be kinder to your customers. Spend a little bit more and get the softer stuff! And two-ply, please.

• That pesky mail from major banks that have at least four pieces of paper with my name and address on them. Checks to consolidate balances, offers for new credit cards, and more. Shredding them isn't hard, but what if I don't feel like going upstairs and plugging in the shredder? (I complained to Chase, where I bank, and they made a change in my profile but warned me that it may take 90 days to take effect. I'm still in 90-day limbo.)

• The fact that with hundreds of cable channels, and a hefty bill to prove it, there are still times when there's absolutely nothing to watch. (And I have pretty eclectic—and not always sophisticated—taste in TV shows.)

• Drivers who think it's not cool to use their turn signals. I've been surprised many times when a car in front of me suddenly slows and turns right while I, foolishly, assumed it was going my way. I give my "you selfish moron!" look, but they're long gone, so it's of no use.

• Cashiers who engage in conversations with coworkers while they're checking out your purchases. I'm pleased to see that this is rarer today. Companies must be doing a better job at customer service training.

• Mothers out for a stroll with their babies or toddlers and on the phone, gabbing away. Wouldn't it be nice if they paid some attention to their little ones? I accept that sometimes it's necessary to take or make a call. But engaging in a long non-emergency conversation when you're supposed to be spending quality time with your children? I even saw one mother crossing the street, little one in hand, having an engrossing conversation. The one is beyond petty annoyance for me. It's dangerous and wrong! (Having said that, I'm glad that cell phones weren't invented when my children were small. I'm sure I wasn't fully engaged all the time. Motherhood is a challenge!)

I am now pettied out. For a day or two. If I think of more ways the world can get my goat, I'll write about them later. If, when you read this, you find my whining about the small stuff irritating, don’t tell me. I would find that very annoying.

Four useless eyes and a phantom spider

2011-10-06T12:15:00.000-05:00

You would think with two of us in the house—and one of us (not me) nearly 4 years younger than the other—one of us would have decent eyesight. It's not the case. Last night, just as I was about to turn out the lights and try to sleep, I looked over to see my spouse staring up at the ceiling.

"What?" I asked, a little fearfully.

"There's something up there..."

I looked up. And jumped up. It looked like a spider, on the ceiling, right over our pillows! But neither one of us was sure. Our aging eyes don't work the way they used to.

I've mentioned before that I don't like creepy crawly things (or hopping and slithering things for that matter). I'm especially queasy about spiders. To illustrate just how much I can't tolerate the creatures, I'm not able to download the Spider Solitaire app to my iPad. I did for a day, but every time I opened my iPad, its logo, a big, black spider, stared back at me. I didn't bother learning how to play the game and just deleted it.

But now we had a dilemma. This thing was hovering over our sleeping space, and there was no way I was going to lie down in that bed again until I knew it was gone...from the ceiling, from the room, maybe from this life. One problem? Our ceiling in the master bedroom is very high.

"Get rid of it," I pleaded.

"How should I do that? Even if I stand on the bed, I'm not going to be able to smack it." He thought for a second and then went downstairs to get whatever he needed for his bright idea. Waiting for him, I kept staring up at the thing, making sure that if it went somewhere else, I'd know where to find it. It didn't seem to be moving, but maybe the sound of humans carrying on like idiots immobilized it.

It didn't budge, and I was beginning to think that it might be a dust bunny (a creature I don't mind...). And, you know how when you stare at something immobile for a while it looks like it might be moving slightly? Especially if you're nearsighted? I began to be less and less sure it was a spider, but I wanted to be absolutely sure it was not.

My hero returned to the bedroom with his weapon of choice. A Swiffer mop! He marched over to the bed, slammed the flat bottom of the mop hard on the ceiling and...nothing happened. No insect scurried away to get out from under the mop. And when he finally took the mop down from the ceiling, nothing was on it. If it had been a spider, it would be somewhere—on the mop, on the bed, scurrying across the ceiling to get away from two lunatic murderers...

I have no idea where the dust bunny went, and I don't much care. As long as both of us were convinced there was no spider, we could get some sleep.

Rather than complain about the fact that neither of us can see all that well, I am grateful I have a compadre who's going through the same challenges of senior(ugh)hood. If nothing else, it makes for an amusing story.

Better [Vegas] late than never

2011-09-27T18:06:00.000-05:00

Last week I met a group of my high school alum chums (some from elementary school on) in Las Vegas for a mini-reunion. There were some who had been good friends back then and some I had known in school but not well. Spouses were included.

This was my—and my spouse's—first time in Vegas. (Yes, you read that right. In our upper 60s and never been to Vegas!) I had a great time, mainly because of the interaction with the friendly and welcoming group of grads and their partners, but I came to these conclusions about this vacation destination:

I liked...

The late night hours of the restaurants and shops. Even though we rarely stay out late anymore, it's nice to know something's available if needed or wanted.

The over-the-top decor in the hotels and casinos. No cheap materials used in the mosaic-tiled and marble floors, leather wall coverings, blown glass chandeliers. Lovely to look at, even if I wouldn't necessarily use these in my own home.

The availability of so many shows nearby, with top-level stars. But if you want to see more than one, you might have to cash in one of your CDs.

The fact that I got my share of exercise because, as I heard about ten times during this vacation, "Nothing is as close as it looks."

I didn't like...

The smell of cigarette smoke—and stale cigarette smoke—in and around every single casino. Didn't Las Vegas gamblers get the message that smoking can kill you?

The fact that the hotels usually do not have the expected comfortable lobbies, with sofas, chairs, and free WiFi. Of course, they don't want you to sit and schmooz or access your emails. They want you to gamble, gamble, gamble.

Gambling. It's just not for me. Yes, I like hitting a button and watching my investment of a dollar grow to nine or ten dollars, but I really hate seeing it plunge to zero.

But the reason for the gathering was to get reaquainted with our childhood friends and memories. People our age get so mellow and appreciative when we visit those who shared our formative years, and these few days were a love-fest. After reminding each other of the silly, even embarrassing things we did and misconceptions we had in school, we decided that we need to stick together. After all, together we make up one solid memory bank. We need each other to fill in our blanks.

The comeback kid (with a few changes)

2011-09-19T17:48:00.000-05:00

From time to time, I assess the qualities in myself that I would like to change but know I won’t. Especially now that I’m of a certain age.

It’s not that changing one’s basics is always impossible at a late age, but we have to be realistic and admit we will probably go on being what we’ve always been. And then there are the attributes we can’t change, like body parts and organs. (Granted, modern medicine makes almost anything possible, but I'm not sure I'd take the risk.)

So I play the game of “If I’m reincarnated, here’s how I’d like to come back…” This is assuming I’d still be a Jewish girl from Chicago. Here’s my wish list:

Thin thighs—not too thin but pleasingly curvy
Thick, straight, shiny hair that’s easy to style, doesn’t frizz in hot and wet weather, and looks great windblown
A passion for sports or at least an appreciation of football, baseball, and basketball so I can watch games with the in crowd and enjoy Super Bowl Sunday parties
Organization skills...not to be scary organized, like someone who alphabetizes items in their medicine cabinet, but able to stay on top of bills, appointments, and deadlines with ease
A little more of me on top and less on the bottom. Now that I know that being pear-shaped is healthier than being apple-shaped, I'm more appreciative of what I've got. But can I request hourglass-shaped?
Much less concern about wrinkles. Not the ones that are slowly making their appearance on my face and neck—and arms. Clothing wrinkles. I refuse to travel with linen and choose everyday items based on the material (wrinkle-free, packable, patterned so wrinkles won't show, or ruffled or otherwise textured so wrinkles don't have a place to land). I worry about how I'm sitting before I get to a party. Heaven forbid I walk in with big creases on my lap and backside. I will give myself credit, however, for not giving wrinkles a thought once I arrive. It's just the prep that has me in a neurotic grip.

There's more on my wish list, but what's the point? I'm probably not coming back. I never did believe in Bridey Murphy and others that followed.

And here's a disclaimer: I'm really quite satisfied with who I am, most of the time. But it's great fun to think about this. I can even work on these wishes to get closer to my ideal. Except one: I'll never love sports.

Random Musings

2011-09-06T21:27:00.001-05:00

I have thoughts. Sometimes they're not very deep. (Did I say "sometimes"?) I've gathered some of them here for no particular purpose—except to amuse you or make you murmur "and she used to be so much more interesting..."

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Are we obsolete? We have lived so many decades and learned so much. But is anyone still using what we've learned, and perfected? The first thing that comes to mind is cursive writing. I read recently that some schools, or maybe it's most schools, are not going to teach it anymore. Hardly anyone writes in longhand. But I can't really get on my soapbox and lament the passing of this art because, since I've begun writing everything on the computer, my handwriting has gotten so bad, I can't read what I've written just a few days ago.

And what about grammar? I still care, but does anyone else? By that I mean anyone else in Gen X or Gen Y.

And don't get me started about manners and civil behavior. I wouldn't for a second want to go back to the repressive 50s, when you didn't dare speak up or dress out of the norm. But does anyone else remember being taught to respect others?

Then there are traffic laws. I don’t really fit into today’s society because I try very hard to obey all traffic laws. Okay, I drive from 5 to 10 miles over the limit, but I swear everybody else is passing me by. I don’t get into the left turn bay until I’m supposed to (that means no driving over the road divider for several car lengths), even when it means I’ll probably miss the green arrow. I also use my turn signals. Today it seems that letting other drivers know what move your vehicle is going to make next is out of style.

We've spent all this time learning how to get along in society, and then they go and change the culture on us. I'm not sure who "they" is, but can't we have any influence on them?

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Sometimes I have this disturbing thought: Am I starting to act more like my parents because they had so many years of influence on me? Or is it because I inherited some of the genes that make me mimic the things I definitely do not want to do?

If it’s the former, I can vow to change and then try to catch myself and reverse the activity. But if it’s the latter? I’m doomed…

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My husband and I are aging together, although not necessarily gracefully. As ungraceful agers, we can be heard uttering these words and phrases, more often than I should admit: Watchamacallit. (As in, "Switch the watchamacallit from my car to yours.") What's-her-name. (As in, "Didn't we see him at What's-her-name's party?") That thing. (As in, "Can you hand me that thing?")

It would be better if one of us could remember the nouns, proper and otherwise, that belong to common utensils—or the TV remote—or people we worked with long ago. I call it our "un-noun territory." (Groaning is appropriate here.)

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That's all for now. Time to play Boggle and stop thinking so much.

Eye yi yi yi...

2011-08-08T10:20:00.000-05:00

I've learned that impulse buys are not just the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup you grab while you're waiting for the cashier to count the hundred pennies the customer in front of you just handed her. An impulse buy—if you're me—can be something as important as contact lenses.

Yes, I may have contact lenses to add to my list of things labeled "What Was I Thinking?" Here's how this took place.

At my annual checkup with the opthamologist, I found myself saying, "I think I'd like to try contacts again." This was probably a bad idea for so many reasons.

Although I wore contacts years ago, they were gas permeable (hard) lenses. Fewer companies are making those anymore because soft lenses, especially disposable ones, are so popular. I have no real experience with the soft ones. My only minor brush with soft lenses was an earlier attempt with a different eye doc, and it was a disaster. I wasn't able to put them in and gave up.

Gas permeables are not a good option for me because I plan to wear my new contacts only when going to a big party. Big as in a ballroom, like my high school reunion or the company holiday dinner dance. Occasional wear calls for soft contacts, especially for women of a certain age who, usually, have dry eyes.

They must be distance-only lenses, so the contacts would be useful only at places where I didn't plan to read or type anything.

Basically, this was not a logical decision. I just decided to try something new (or something from a long time ago that I wanted to resurrect). So we set up an appointment for the fitting.

As I sat down in the chair for the appointment, I was certain that soft contacts had improved, and I woudn't have the problems I experienced earlier. (That silly little watery disc seemed to disappear on my finger or fall into the sink, and by the time I got it into my eye, my mascara was dribbling down my cheeks.) No. That wasn't going to happen this time. Modern technology would save the day!

After a couple of attempts, I got them into my eyes. I was proud. Then it was time to remove them. I swear I grabbed and pinched and flexed my index finger until it ached. Eventually I got them out, but I was uneasy. What if I was at home and couldn't remove a lens? What if it was during the medical office's non-working hours? Would I have to go to the emergency room? Silly thought. Or was it? The nurse who was working with me told me she once had to call the doctor and have him meet her in the office on his day off because she couldn't remove one lens. Great. Then a good friend told me that, during her only experience with soft lenses, she was ready to go to the ER when she finally got one out.

Now I was spooked. And the lenses have been sitting in my cabinet since then, untouched. What was I thinking? I'm willing to try them again, but shouldn't I wait until I'm sure someone is in the office to help me if I need it?

On the day of my eye checkup, I was thinking vainly, not clearly. The proof? I also asked the doctor about getting my eyelids done, and he handed me a business card for a plastic surgeon. Fortunately, I misplaced the card and don't plan to make an impulsive phone call. I also concluded that I could take the money I would spend on contacts, and possibly elective surgery, and buy several pairs of youthful eyeglasses. And as a bonus, the frames would hide some of the crows feet and undereye bags. Now there's a plan.

Take my word for it

2011-07-18T11:42:00.000-05:00

Taking advice from health experts who remind us to learn new things to keep our brains supple, I have acquired—but, alas, not learned—a number of new words by playing Boggle. That is, I’ve exclaimed “That’s a word?” after hitting a series of three letters by accident. Sometimes it’s no accident, but I’ve exhausted all the words I know and I start hitting letters with desperation. Here are the ones I now use most often:

ain, ait, alt, ane, ava, dan, del, dev, het, lev, oda, ora, ree, ret, tae, ted, taw, tew, tun

String them together, and I may sound like I’m speaking Erse (that’s a word I’ve learned from crossword puzzles, along with adit and sere).

This would be helpful if I took a few minutes to look up these unfamiliar words. I’d be exercising my brain and learning something new, however nearly useless. But I don’t. I’m sure that if I get bored some day, I’ll do just that…No, I’ll do better than that. For the sake of this post, I’ll take the time to see what a few of these words mean—in case you were dying to know.

ain: a Scottish word for own or the 18th letter of the arabic alphabet

tun: a large cask for holding liquids, especially wine, ale, or beer

taw: a fancy marble used as a shooter (I was pretty sure it didn’t refer to Tweety Talk, as in “I taw a puddy tat”)

tae: a Scottish word for to, too, or toe (as in English, the word multi-tasks)

lev: a coin and monetary unit of Bulgaria, equal to 100 stotinki (drop that at the next cocktail party and watch the crowd thin out around you)

oda: a room within a harem (I doubt I'll be using that one in a sentence anytime soon)

I’m not sure any of our lives are richer for knowing these terms. I do know, though, that using them with some other word games is of no value. Word Warp—a new way I’ve found to waste my time—doesn’t recognize most of them.

Switching to cheap

2011-07-01T12:42:00.000-05:00

I admit to being somewhat of a product snob—at least for certain items. That’s odd in itself because, like most of us our age, I’m the child of Depression-era parents. They knew what it meant to have only enough money to live on with no extras for luxuries, and my mother was the queen of bargains. One day, after an afternoon of shopping, she presented me with the ugliest bathing suit I have ever seen. When I told her I didn’t like it, she exclaimed, “But it was only a dollar!” I believe I actually wore that suit, and if I can find the incriminating photo or two, I’ll post them here. After all, the statute of limitations on dorkiness has expired…hasn’t it?

My father was a mail carrier, moving his way up to foreman and, ultimately, Director of Customer Service of Chicago’s Main Post Office. But during my early years, he schlepped mail. I thought it was cool because he’d bring home the most wonderful candy and trinkets during the Christmas season. One unforgettable gift was a cigarette box. When you wanted to smoke (not that I ever did), you pressed the tail of a bird and he bobbed into the stash of cigarettes and came up with one in his beak. As a kid, I loved it. I’m sure my parents would have rather had cash.

So I've set the stage to say that we didn't have much money when I was growing up. I never felt deprived, and I always had enough clothing and accessories. They just weren't—usually—good brands.

As I reached middle age and was making a decent salary on my own, I gave myself permission to buy better: Marshall Field's, Lord and Taylor, Chico's, and Nordstrom were shopping havens for me. Sometimes I would accompany friends to boutiques and spend more on one item than I had on whole outfits in the past.

As for makeup, I got hooked on Lancome, Shiseido, and other department store brands. Once I discovered Lancome's Definicils mascara, it was the only one I used. I also relied for a long time on the samples I received as a gift with purchase, so I have many lipsticks and eye shadow quads. If I really liked a color and ran out of the sample, I bought the full-price version.

Then, a few years ago, I saw Queen Latifah on a TV ad for Cover Girl. The product was LashExact, a mascara with a brush made of plastic bristles that promised to cover each lash....like Definicils does. I bought it, then other versions of Cover Girl mascara, and I haven't looked back. The same thing happened with lipstick (and it also involved a Queen Latifah commercial). I now have a collection of Cover Girl lipsticks and glosses. And they're much cheaper than department store brands! One problem I discovered is that, because they cost so comparatively little, I think nothing of buying more than I need. Who needs four tubes of mascara and eight lip glosses?

When it came to clothing, I would dismiss stores like Kohl's and Target. If I wanted bargains, I'd go for more mainstream brands at Marshall's and TJ Maxx and Nordstrom Rack. Those stores are still in play, but I've become a Kohl's convert. I love the fact that practically everything is on sale all the time. And I know now that some very good brands (Dana Buchman, Chaps, Nine West, Vera Wang, to name a few) have lines they design just for Kohl's.

You might say that being semi-retired has something to do with it. But I'm also genuinely happy with the items I buy at the lower cost shops. I haven't abandoned my taste for Jones New York or Chicos—as long as what I want is on sale—but I've renounced my old snobbish thoughts. As always, the only test the product I buy has to pass is this one: Does this item make me look old? If it does, I'm not buying it, even if it's “only a dollar”—or the 21st century equivalent.

No fathers, just memories

2011-06-18T17:37:00.000-05:00

Father’s Day is approaching, but—sadly—there are no more fathers around for us to shower with shirts that don't fit, ties they don’t need, and, in one unpleasant instance, a fancy-schmancy showerhead that my father looked at and handed right back to me. This didn’t cause me psychological damage. I understood that my father knew what he liked and didn’t like, and this time I got it wrong. Almost every other time he told me I gave him the best presents, and with his penchant for honesty, I knew he meant it.

There’s the father of my kids, whom I’m no longer married to but wish well. He’ll be amply gifted by our daughters. My husband doesn’t have kids and he came into my daughters’ lives way too late for them to think of him as other than their mother’s husband—although they treat him with kindness.

So, this week there are no cards to buy, no masculine—frivolous—gadgets to look for. But I can reflect.

My father died in 1997 at the age of 80. By that time, we could no longer communicate because Parkinson’s had affected his mind. We couldn’t tell if he understood anything we were saying. One of the last memories I have, before the one-day hospice stay he endured—was a small birthday party at his nursing home. He attempted to eat the cake, although Parkinson’s had attacked his ability to swallow properly too, but I’m not sure he knew what we were celebrating.

After my mother died in 2005, we cleared out their condo and got rid of bagsful of stuff—Depression-era parents saved nearly everything—but I held onto the items that either brought back memories or I thought I might need. Today, I still have what I refer to as “the shrine.” In a small section of my closet are papers, trinkets, photos, death notices—you never know when you might need another one—and other things I swear I’m going to go through and purge one day.

Besides the shrine, there are Rubbermaid boxes of stuff that we finally are going through (probably to make space for our own junk). Among other papers in one of the boxes is a stack of my father’s poems. He wrote most of them in the late 40s and early 50s, and whenever I come across them I see different parts of this often quiet man’s inner being. Here’s a short one that made me smile and that I recognized as truly him:

Movies

I doff my hat to the clever wit

Who worked and worried, bit by bit,

Till he evolved, to our surprise

That wondrous gift to please our eyes:

Pictures that move.

And, on the subject, it’s only fair

To mention the others who did their share,
I bow low to the engineers
Who brought this boon to our happy ears:

Pictures that talk.

With all these gifts at their command,

You can readily understand

Why I’d like to dump in the lake

All the guys who continually make

Pictures that smell.

There are others, including a much longer, serious one about the disappointment GIs faced when coming home to live the American dream from World War II, written in August 1948. I’ll publish that one in the future.

Until then, I wish fathers everywhere a happy day and hope that you cherish your family and that they let you know they feel the same.

From Tweety to tweeting

2011-06-10T13:19:00.000-05:00

My favorite cartoon character of all time is Tweety Bird. He’s just so….adorable. As a child and again when my children were little, I followed him in all his successful attempts to outsmart his archenemy Sylvester the Cat. (Their names suggest that, whatever our age, we're too dense to be able to determine what kind of creatures they are.)

There’s been a whiplash change in society and media since I was captivated by “I taught I taw a puddy tat”—OK, it can’t be considered “whiplash” if it happened over a 40-year period. But it seems like only yesterday.

Today, I’m a sort of tweeter myself. I still don’t fully understand tweeting. I just do it. And I do it professionally. By that I mean that my boss has asked me to create the tweets for our department. My company now has a presence on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. I’m thrilled that he asked the oldest person in the department to handle this generally Gen Y task. But I admit that the person who set me up and showed me how to do it is in her early 20s, and patient.

I found out that tweeting is fun! Well, it’s fun for me because I like to put words together. And the challenge of Twitter is that each tweet can have only 140 characters—spaces and punctuation included. Fortunately, there’s a built-in application that shortens web links so those don’t take up the whole 140.

Another challenge is to choose the right words—in my case the ones that are more likely to interest someone in registering for a course or conference.

What I don’t quite understand about tweeting is, Where do those tweets go? Who sees them? Are these people actively looking for the tweets? I could go on, but I’m slowly seeing some answers to these questions. Our tweets show up on our LinkedIn and Facebook pages…I think. But if someone were not looking at those pages, how do they find the tweets? How do we reach the audience we’re looking to attract?

I don’t spend much time on finding answers. I just tweet. Here are three examples:

Be among the first to know about new courses, conferences,

schedule updates. Subscribe to Education eNews: http://bit.ly/lsGtz7

Solving your customers' #steam system issues won't be as challenging

after this 2-day course in June: http://bit.ly/lMGyqi

Set your sights on being the best gas distribution engineer you can be.

Come to class and get well-trained: http://bit.ly/jfsar9

The hatch mark (#) is placed before a word that you might want search engines to pick up on. When I use them, I'm never sure I'm putting it in front of the word someone will actually use for a search.

Now that I know how to do this, you'd think I'd start working on tweeting personally. But I can't think of a single reason to do so. Who would read them? How would they find them? What would anyone want to know that I could say in 140 characters? More questions with no immediate answers. But if I wait a while, they may come to me. Of course, suggestions are most welcome.

Selective memory

2011-05-13T13:29:00.000-05:00

Why is it that I can't remember a lot of details about the past, but utter trivia will come back to me clearly?

For example, when I'm in the gym locker room getting ready to work out, as soon as I start to put on my sneakers and socks, a scene from "All in the Family" plays in my head.

Archie and Meathead are in Archie's living room arguing about whether it makes more sense to put on both socks, then both shoes, or to put on a sock and a shoe followed by the other sock and shoe. I think Meathead's opinion was that it's better to put both socks on first. If the house is suddenly on fire, wouldn't it be easier to run out if one has on a complete pair of something?

I think of this every time I put on those shoes.

Just don't ask me anything of importance.

Black and blue and red all over

2011-05-09T15:39:00.000-05:00

I am my own worst enemy. I blame it on advancing age, although I admit I was always a little clumsy. There are days that, to look at me, you’d think someone was being abusive. That someone is me.

I bump into things, as I always have. Maybe it’s a little worse now because my balance is not what it used to be.

I can live with the black-and-blue bruises I get when I hit my shin on the shopping cart bar (especially those smaller black carts that are an option at Dominick’s; they have that extra horizontal bar at the bottom and I keep moving forward while the cart stands still…). I have no need to be embarrassed about the discoloration on my knee that arose from slamming the car door before my body got out of way. I don’t have to explain the bruise on my shoulder after I’ve misjudged the amount of space between me and the wall. After all, it’s not yet summer, and long pants and three-quarter sleeves keep my secrets.

But the red marks on my face and hands are another story. Here’s a summary of three recent stupid accidents:

1. I had just had my hair cut, and rather than have the stylist blow it dry (an added expense), I sat under the three-bulb heat lamp, scrunching clumps of hair into curls that the warmth of the lamps locks into place. Never satisfied with sitting a safe distance away from these red-hot globes, I like to slyly bend one of them a little closer to my hair, hoping to shave a little time off the process. Then, forgetting about that indiscretion, I started scrunching again, burning my hand in the process. Now I had an obnoxious red mark on my upper hand that got redder while it healed.

2. Just after waking up one morning, I hit the Snooze button and then settled back down on my pillow. But, as often happens, my curly hair was on my cheek, and I wanted to push it back. I casually swept the curls off my face, failing to realize that one of my fingernails was jagged. Within seconds I felt a stinging on my cheek and a wetness when my hand felt it. Could it be blood? It was, and the result of my finger swipe was a one-inch horizontal gash—not so deep I needed to have it taken care of, but ugly enough that I’ve had to use concealer on it as it heals.

This could have been prevented. It’s not that I don’t’ know that my nails are so weak that a tap on a piece of fabric can tear them. I should have filed it before I went to bed. But who could have guessed I was a menace to my face?

3. Back to heat-as-evil, I was innocently defining curls with my curling iron and I decided to counteract the letter C that my short bangs were forming (a pet peeve). To straighten them a little, I used the iron and pulled the hair in the opposite direction. And burned my forehead. It’s just a little red burn on the upper left, but it adds a nice balance to the red gash on my lower right.

(I've noticed a common thread here: hair. Can't live with it; don't want to live without it.)

My only consolation is that I’m not a menace to others. That is, unless I forget to trim my toenails this evening. I’d better warn my spouse.

Looks are deceiving—here’s how I deceive

2011-05-02T16:07:00.001-05:00

Caution: Don’t read this if you’re bored by someone blathering on about her beauty routines, shopping rules, and age-defying practices. It’s self-indulgent, but aren’t most blogs?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I know I don't look my age. I'm not gloating about it, but I enjoy hearing gasps when the real number of birthdays I've celebrated is announced. And I'm sure I'll stop announcing it as soon as the gasp turns into a casual “Uh huh.”

I credit the genes from my mother's side, but I also put a little work into it—sometimes a lot of work. People often ask for my "secret," as if I’m keeping the formula for the magic potion in my safety deposit box. I don't even have a safety deposit box. And if I did, I probably wouldn't remember where I hid the key...but I'm getting off-track.

There are no secrets, only my own set of guidelines for staying youthful—an ever-growing set. For those who have asked, here are my own stay-young, anti-frumpy rules, separated into neat categories, like a textbook. (Remember those? We used them in school a long, long time ago.)

Chapter 1: Clothing
I’ve cleansed my closet of anything I consider old-looking. When I shop, I try to keep “youthful-but-not-trying-too-hard” in mind. Here are some of my rules:

• Nothing that’s too boxy or shapeless

• Nothing with little (or big) colorful appliqués or embroidered kitschy icons—even if it’s the week before Halloween or July 4. No birds, trees, butterflies, snowflakes…unless they are artfully worked into the pattern—and a 40-year-old would wear it.

• Flattering necklines. In my case, it’s usually a V-neck, preferably one that’s not too low—60-something cleavage is often better left under cover.

• Summer pants that don’t end right in the middle of the calf. For years, I wore capris that hit me right there (that’s the old maxi length in skirts), and when I looked in the full-length mirror, I kept changing shoes thinking they were the reason I felt frumpy. Now I know that the mid-calf length is not flattering at all on me, and I go for just below the knee (when I can find them) or longer ankle pants.

• No mid-length shapeless jackets. They should have a belt or some sort of nipped-in waist, even if your waist doesn’t want to nip.

I’ve adopted the look that has my tank or shirt falling below the hem of my jacket. This used to be considered slovenly on all but the very young (and maybe strung out), but it’s now hip and stylish. That means that shorter jackets are good—as long as they don’t hit you in a place that makes your wide hips the focal point (or maybe that’s just me).

Chapter 2: Shoes
Ahh, if I could only wear really hip and youthful shoes…No pointy toes or high heels for me. So I have to be careful in choosing footwear to stay away from old-looking styles. I can wear flats and a little bit of a heel, but I try to buy flats that are cut low (high?), so more of my foot shows.

In the summer, I have a similar problem. There are cool, hip sandals out there, but most of them are flip-flop styles (or what we used to call “thongs,” a term now used to describe underpants that I can only refer to as “painful”—not that I’ve ever tried any).

Chapter 3: Accessories
When it comes to accessories, I pay attention to the trends. Not the ones usually shown in the junior department, but the styles seen in catalogs and magazines—that is, the ones that are age-appropriate, like More and O!—and those shown on TV shows like Today and, of course, What Not to Wear. I adapt the ones that work for me.

For example, chunky, bold jewelry is in, so I buy (or dig out from the past) costume jewelry to add something conspicuous, like a wide bangle bracelet or a necklace of varying size circles that can be doubled. Pieces like these make people notice—hopefully in a good way.

I never leave the house without earrings. “Never” doesn’t include going to have oral surgery or to my hair appointment. If I forget and wear them to the salon, I have to remove them, put them in my purse, then consider them lost until I discover them again several days later—at best.

I choose earrings long enough so that they show, at least a little, below my hair. I admit to having way too many pairs of earrings and, even worse, way too many single ones. I know their mates are probably never coming home, but still…I hang on to them just in case. Despite this wealth of ear jewelry, I am partial to the same few pairs most of the time.

Very trendy now are those long, soft scarves that you can wrap artfully around your neck, European-style. If you didn’t pass Scarves 101, try http://www.scarves.net/how-to-tie-a-scarf/. I plan to do that as soon as I buy a new scarf.

Chapter 4: Hair
Color
My natural hair color is very dark brown. (I’m talking about the good ol’ days. I have no idea what my hair would look like naturally now, except for some mousy gray roots that pop up along my part and around my hairline.) Gray—the salt-and-pepper variety—and white hair can be lovely. But the combination of the drab color I see coming in and my light skin tone made me decide to start coloring my hair. My “secret,” which is widely published, is to go lighter, not darker and not the same dark tone you grew up with. I also have even lighter highlights, and I get lots of compliments on my hair from friends and strangers, so it must be a good look for me.

Style
I’m lucky to have a wonderful stylist—the same one for over 20 years. She’s the age of my older daughter (she was originally my daughter’s stylist), and she’s become a good friend (although one I see only every five weeks). She is dedicated to keeping me youthful, and she cuts my hair with a little “edge” to it. The back is shorter than the sides. Why that’s edgy and youthful, I’m not sure, but it works. I'm also open to changes. I accept my curls and enhance them with a curling iron, but I have a collection of flat irons—used occasionally when I get bored with my routine.

Chapter 5: Teeth
I admit to failing to follow my own advice here, but there are extenuating circumstances.

First and foremost, if at all possible, whiten your teeth. Yellow teeth give away age as fast as wrinkles and jowls. I did this once, through my dentist, but now there are good OTC whiteners that work pretty well for far less cost. My problem now is that my top teeth have bonding, and whiteners don’t whiten them. My dentist tells me there are new, lighter bonding materials available, so when I finish paying for an upcoming new dental implant and costly bridge, I’ll consider going that route. After all, who needs to eat and pay the mortgage? But all those of you who can use the whiteners—do it!

Chapter 6: Skin Care and Makeup
I inherited my mother's skin, and for that I'm grateful. Never mind that she always had dry skin and I always fought off those ugly breakouts and excess oil. She and I were blessed with slow-to-wrinke faces.

But there's another secret that I learned later in life. See the good things that others see in you, and it will reflect in your face and attitude. When I first saw my current dermatologist, she said "You have beautiful skin." I was surprised, even though I'd heard that from other people. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were the large pores on my chin and a mapping of broken capillaries forming an ugly frame for my nose. We addressed those issues (mostly with pricey creams, which the office sells...), and even though I can still see evidence of these things I used to find unworthy, I now believe the derm and others and feel very good about my skin. Many times I go without foundation, just a little mineral powder (after, of course, all those layers, like sunscreen, moisturizer, sometimes beauty serum). I wear foundation at times, but I make sure it's a formula that doesn't go on heavy (very aging) and I go over it lightly with a sponge to make sure it blends in. If you're not too exhausted to add yet another layer, a primer does a nice job of helping foundation look smooth.

And on the topic of anti-aging skin, 30 SPF sunscreen is the most important layer to put on if you're going to be outside at all. Naturally, I have a great product I bought at the dermatology office.

Do wear eyeliner, shadow, and mascara if you're so inclinded (and it's good to be so inclined as to not look washed out; color—everywhere—fades as we age). Just don't go heavy on any of them. I've also been using an OTC eyelash growth product. I have yet to see an improvement on my thinning lashes, but maybe they would be falling out faster if I didn't use it.

Beauty is expensive, as is age-definace. But you already knew that.

Chapter 7: Behavior
We all know that the younger generations consider their elders stubborn and unwilling to learn something new. It’s a gross generalization, but don’t you know a few people who fit that description? I am fortunate to work at a job that has me continuously learning new software and web applications. But if I didn’t, I would still want to use as much of new (or not so new) media as possible so that I don’t fall behind and—horrors—be considered an alta cocker (or, in English, an old fart).

It’s not just learning something new that’s important. It’s the flexibility to change your way of thinking about something or dropping an old habit. Or to try new things.

Now, I admit to sometimes settling into the stereotype of older people who beg off of activities they used to do. I now prefer to dine in the suburbs rather than face city traffic (even if I’m the passenger—which is usually the case). I recently turned down a night out at a pub (for charity no less) because it started at 9:00 p.m. Leave the house at 9? And isn’t there something good on TV at that time? (Yes. 48 Hours Mystery. Can’t get enough of those stories about husbands killing wives, and vice-versa…)

But you have to stop yourself from automatically saying no to something a little bit out of your comfort zone. Try to squash those knee-jerk thoughts, like "Are there clean bathrooms there?"

There you have it. Follow these rules at your own risk. Or create your own rules and be beautiful and youthful in your unique way. And because I abide by my own rule about being open and flexible, if you find a new miracle product, please let me know.

Boggle rehab?

2011-04-18T17:16:00.000-05:00

I have finally overcome my addiction to playing Boggle on the iPad. It was so simple, and right at my fingertips all along. Who knew?

I’m proud to announce that my miracle cure is…Word Solitaire! Since I started playing Word Solitaire night and day, I rarely open Boggle—let alone play it for an hour. Word Solitaire uses letters instead of cards, and you build words by stacking letters, sometimes drawing from the stash at the bottom and often using jokers to substitute for any letter. It’s fun, it’s challenging, and, I’m afraid, addictive.

If it weren't bad enough that I've discovered an even better time-waster, I got my spouse hooked on it too. But he wasn't challenged enough by the free version of the game, so he upgraded to a level that gives me a headache just thinking about it. For example, the other day he was whining because he was dealt a Q without a U. The freebie version doesn't even have Qs.

You may be shaking your head and wondering what's to become of someone who is willing to give up hours of the precious time she has left on this earth to poking her finger on a screen. I look at it this way: a) I'm helping myself ward off dementia (fingers crossed); b) I spend less time shopping; and c) I'm really playing with words as a warm-up for actual writing, both on the job and at home. In fact, maybe I will buy the 99 cents version of Word Solitaire and deduct it from my 2011 income tax as a work expense.

Now that I've spent enough time actually writing, I'd better get back to the game...

This and that

2011-03-21T18:15:00.000-05:00

I heard a news story about a 44-year-old woman who had a rare brain disorder: She experienced no fear. She was exposed to snakes, spiders, and a screening of The Blair Witch Project—nothing. She's reported to be normal in every other way. She just doesn't feel fear.

I'd like to find her and talk her into the ritual of pricking our fingers and exchanging a drop of blood. I'll take any bit of fearlessness I can get.

*****************

We all know that the classic act usually labeled a Senior Moment is walking into a room and forgetting what you came there for. Today I did better than that. I dug into my purse and forgot what I was looking for. Since I can never find anything in my purse anyway, I didn't come out any worse than usual.

*****************

I try to make sure I delete my web-surfing history. Heaven forbid someone snatches my computer and discovers that my most recent searches were: the neuromonics tinnitus treatment; causes of chronic cough; removal of ear wax; and symptoms of irritable bowel syndrome.

Or, on a healthier day, some nosy person might discover that I have nothing better to do than investigate the latest antics of Charlie Sheen or seek the meaning behind the last episode of “The Good Wife.”

Is this what semi-retirement is all about? I’d ask myself if this would be my pursuit if I were 20 years younger, but 20 years ago, these kinds of time-passers weren’t possible. I had to rely on visiting the public library, picking up a dictionary, or questioning each and every one of my friends—at least the friends to whom I was willing to confess my specific need for the information.

*****************

Patience is a virtue that, some say, comes into full bloom as we get older. They weren't talking about me. I used to consider myself a patient person, but lately I get antsy standing in a supermarket line when the cashier calls for a price check for someone in front of me. I get irritated waiting for a web site to open. I grind my teeth waiting at a super-long red light, and once it goes green, I'm even more annoyed when it takes the traffic in front of me so long to get moving and I realize I may not make it through.

Where am I going in such a hurry? Usually, not anyplace important enough. Or am I just not wanting to waste the precious minutes that are quickly ticking away? I like that explanation a lot better than thinking I may be becoming a sixty-something curmudgeon.

To e-read or not to e-read?

2011-03-12T13:41:00.000-06:00

I have read a full novel on the iPad. I bought Susan Isaac’s As Husbands Go, a pleasurable page-turner. Did I enjoy reading on the iPad? Yes and no.

Once I got into the e-book, I didn’t notice that I wasn’t reading a physical paper volume. But since I was reading in bed, I had to make the screen a little less bright (lest I screw up my Circadian rhythms and interfere with the production of melatonin, or something like that). I also liked the little tab that serves as a bookmark. Just click it, and a little red ribbon thing comes up. Your page is saved.

But there are some down sides, for me. I usually read in bed, and I’d rather have a paperback book. I like the way a physical book feels. The up side of e-readers is that you can tote a number of books without the extra weight. Good for traveling, although I like to take both when I travel. With a paper book, you can read while the plane is taking off and landing—no electronic device to shut off. My unease with flying dictates that I have something to take my mind off where I am (in an enclosed tube, with no way to escape, except a deadly one), and an engaging book—like a novel by Anita Shreve or Jodi Picoult—works just fine. The e-books are great for those down times in a hotel room or waiting at the airport gate—as long as the battery's been charged. So e-books and paper books can coexist.

Another e-book plus: You can search the pages. Didn’t you ever pick up a novel after a few days of not reading it and come across a statement like, “She wondered where Maxine was.” Then you ask yourself, “Who is Maxine again? Is she the sister or the ex-wife?” With paper, I would be frantically thumbing through the first few chapters hoping to find out where Maxine was introduced.

Another downside: I can’t pass a good book on to my friend, one that usually gives me her books in exchange. If it’s a great book, by one of my favorite authors, I’ll probably want to keep it anyway (but I’m not sure why; I don’t think I’ll reread it, with so many others to choose from). But I’m happy to pass along a good novel, and you can’t do that with an e-book.

I’m sorry to hear that Border’s is in bankruptcy and other stores that sell physical books are hurting, but I can see the need for both types of publications. In fact, maybe I’ll publish an e-novel of my own. As soon as I come up with a plot. And characters. And a setting. And very compelling words. Until such time, I’ll continue writing blog posts.

If you’re happy and you know it...

2011-03-05T16:24:00.000-06:00

It’s funny how one’s version of happiness changes with age. Of course, there are the big things too, like good health, good weather, a thriving family, and peace. But we learn, after decades, that it’s the little things that make us smile. At the risk of sounding like a soppy greeting card, happiness is—

• The ability to zip up and snap closed your jeans, even after a turkey burger with fries (hold the mayo), and without wincing.

• The proximity of a clean women’s restroom, no matter where you are.

• A retired husband who cooks—and is good at it.

• Grandchildren whose faces still light up when you come over (even if it’s really in anticipation of whatever little gift you brought this time).

• Nothing at all to do, but just for a little while, long enough to relax but not so long that ennui sets in.

• Lunch out with old friends—who look across the table at you and still see the young woman you were.

• Dinner out with old or new friends. Evening lighting in a restaurant is flattering, especially when candlelight is involved.

• Breakfast out anywhere, anytime, with almost anybody. Walker Brothers, anyone?

• Having friends and acquaintances comment to me after reading these posts. (Good comments, so far, but you never know…)

Senior no-no? I'm stumped.

2011-02-26T13:35:00.000-06:00

I got a birthday card this year, and with my friend's signature came this directive: “Do something fun…something you’re not supposed to.” Hmmmmm. That made me stop and think. Long and hard. What is it at this age that’s fun and that I’m not supposed to do? That I would want to do? That last part is the key. I can think of naughty things to do, but why would I want to do them? Who has the strength? Or the concentration? Or the dexterity?

That got me thinking about what someone in my age group could possibly want to do that I’m not supposed to do:

• Eat pepperoni pizza? My doctor would love it if I never touched the stuff again, but I indulge about once a month (or more).

• Skip going to the gym? Please….this is habitual and not worthy of a special occasion day.

• Wear anything I want to? What I want to wear—and usually do—is what makes me look 10 years younger. Nothing disobedient about that.

• Play hooky from work? If I do that, a) I have that much more to do when I get back, and b) I don’t get paid. Not fun, not festive.

Am I missing something here? Lord knows, I’m neither athletic nor adventurous, so even though extreme sports may be something I’m not supposed to do at my age, it would be more punishment than fun. Any other ideas are most welcome.

Please don’t use the E word

2011-02-21T21:20:00.000-06:00

Are you as appalled as I am when you read a newspaper story like this? Not a real one—just representative:

“An elderly woman was injured yesterday afternoon when a dazed driver lost control of his car and drove up onto the sidewalk. The victim, Rosemary D. Jones, 65, is in critical condition….”

Sure, I feel sorry for poor Rosemary. But do they have to call her “elderly”? Isn’t that literally adding insult to injury?

And why is it that when reading only the first sentence, I picture someone like my Grandma (may she rest in peace)? I cannot fathom that this elderly person who met an unfortunate fate is actually my age or younger!

Are we elderly? Can’t we wait until we’re in our 80s for that adjective? Or will we bristle at that description in our 80s too? Maybe then we’ll think that elderly should apply only to those over 95. And at 95? I think we’ll have more important things to worry about than how the world of journalism describes us.

Fish tales (but no tails, please)

2011-02-17T14:41:00.003-06:00

I was listening to the radio, and a guest on a talk show was touting a new restaurant. One of the dishes he rhapsodized over was pickled herring. Pickled herring? What memories that brought back! Smelly memories.

Older generations in my family, having Eastern European roots, loved pickled herring, creamed herring, and heaven knows what other malodorous dishes. As a young child, I insisted on being seated as far from the herring eater as possible, sometimes in another room.

Herring wasn't the only victim of my disdain. I also couldn't stand to smell—or look at—sardines. Those beady eyes. The heads, the tails. Yuck.

While other Jewish children were eating smoked fish, I declined. When lox was served on bagels, I opted for the cream-cheese-only alternative

Later, as a young adult, my parents and my contemporaries chose when and where to eat out based on who had the whitefish special. I tried it a couple of times—at least it didn't come with recognizable body parts. But I found it "fishy" and sometimes bony

I often order fish in a restaurant, especially because the latest research tells us it's a way to ward off early death. But I limit my choices to halibut (in spring and summer), sea bass, tilapia, cod...all mild species. I love any fish that doesn't taste like fish.

With so many great restaurants offering a wide variety of these non-fishy fish, I can order with confidence. The only problems I've had have been in foreign countries. In Amsterdam several years ago for a conference, a large group of us went to dinner at a highly recommended restaurant. Entrees were delivered to the table, but mine lagged by a minute or so. When it arrived, my sour expression made everyone laugh. On my plate, giving me the Evil Eye (I swear), was a whole fish—head, tail, gills, and all of its bones. My colleagues knew about my squeamish attitude toward seeing my food as a whole being, and someone quickly summoned the server. My plate was whisked back to the kitchen to be filleted. I was only slightly embarrassed…even though two of my fellow diners were my boss and his boss.

I’d love to think that I’ve matured and am game to try different types of fish and seafood. But this hasn’t happened. In fact, I’ve regressed. I grew up on salmon patties and liked them reasonably well. I ate salmon in restaurants in the 60s and 70s. But I no longer can tolerate the taste of salmon, which tastes like…salmon. I won’t order mussels, clams, or prawns, and before I order a Caesar salad or dressing, I check to make sure no anchovies have come anywhere near it.

A glimpse of my youth—dermatologically speaking

2011-02-09T12:59:00.000-06:00

Shouldn't being sixty-something be too old to get pimples? (Even saying "pimples" instead of "zits" should prove that I'm too old for this new affront.)

I'm not talking about a whole face full of those ugly, angry bumps. Just a few...but one is right over my eyebrow, and not the side that is normally covered by bangs.

I'm resorting to past cures, like cortisone cream, to speed up the healing process, but this eyebrow job seems to be getting redder and bigger. Thank goodness for a concealer that I can spackle on and then reapply after I forget and absent-mindedly rub the itch—and dislodge the cover-up.

I'm not too concerned about this new development because I practically have my dermatologist on retainer. Most of my visits with her end with me purchasing pricey age-defying creams. But occasionally I ask her to pop out a whitehead or remove a scaly patch. I’ll ask for help at my next visit if this reminder of my teen years is still there.

Update: Cortisone works. The red blotch is smaller and not so itchy anymore. Thank goodness. The thing started to bring back vivid memories of the late 50s. Some of it was fun, but…

Don’t make me laugh…or smile

2011-02-02T15:45:00.000-06:00

A few days ago, as I sat here waiting to be escorted to the oral surgeon for my tooth extraction, I was painfully aware that I was hungry and thirsty. My orders were to eat or drink nothing for the eight hours before the procedure because I was having general anesthesia. If this were a typical work day, at that time of the morning I wouldn't be eating or drinking yet anyway. It's the fact that I absolutely could not have anything that made me acutely aware of wanting it. But when I came home, I couldn’t eat much of anything anyway—at least for several hours.

I was woozy and a little unsteady when standing, and, as the Novocain (which I don't remember getting) wore off, a tolerable ache set in.

I was disappointed to learn that the oral surgeon did not put in an implant right after the extraction, so I'll have to return for that procedure in several weeks. But I’ve been that route before, and though it's not fun, I can do it. Heck, I might even lose a few pounds while I can't eat for a while. (Always look for the silver lining...)

In a few hours, I felt much better, with no real pain at all. It was a clean extraction, with a few dissolving stitches. Now all I have to do is hope my dentist can make a temporary bridge that I can wear until a more permanent fix is in place.

Ever since I discovered my dysfunctional tooth and learned that I'll have a big upper left gap for a while, I have threatened to get a dummy, dress it up in something I might wear, and start throwing my voice while talking through clenched teeth. And you know how, on TV, those dummies start saying things—mean things—that the person operating it wouldn't dare say? I can’t help wondering if I might blurt out an insult or two, then look at my dummy with shock.

But as I get older, I don’t have much meanness in me, at least not toward my friends and family. It’s those politicians I’d like to lambast, along with Charlie Sheen, whose behavior threatens to cut short my favorite irreverent TV show.

If I have so many clothes, why can’t I get dressed?

2011-01-20T13:44:00.000-06:00

I’m having an issue with getting dressed for work, or for lunch with a friend, or even for shopping. I have half our large walk-in closet full of tops and bottoms, and part of a closet in the third bedroom is filled with off-season clothes and spillover from the walk-in.

So there I stand, scrubbed clean from my shower, makeup on, staring at the array of clothing and wondering what to wear. These black pants? Um…they don’t quite fit this week. The gray ones are a little larger, so they’ll do. But what to pair with the gray pants…that’s harder. OK, aqua blue will go, but that particular top is a little short, and the way my tummy bulges in the gray pants will be obvious. Move on to the orange top. There’s a tiny hole near the neckline, but I haven’t had a chance to sew it yet.

This goes on, until I’m discouraged and ready to climb back into bed. Here are some of the other reasons I reject the items in my closet:

The pants are too long unless I wear higher heels, but I have to do a lot of walking today.
The pants are too short. What was I thinking when I was buying all those petites?
This yet-unworn jacket looks awful on me from a side view. Why did I buy it?
This jacket fits and looks great…but are long ones still in style? And are the shoulder pads obvious?
This blouse is not really as “no iron” as they claim. Who has time to drag out the iron and ironing board?
This top would go perfectly. If only it weren’t so cold out.
I can’t wear this tank top unless I go back into the bathroom and shave under my arms. What if it gets hot in my office and I have to take the jacket off?
The neckline on this top is too low for work.

There’s a cure for this: Coordinate your wardrobe in the first place. Buy items that go together at one time. Don’t buy something that goes with nothing else in your closet just because it’s on sale. And, finally, get rid of those things that don’t work, ever. They just add confusion and inhibit decision-making.

The trick is to follow my own advice. Because I love to shop, I am prone to impulse buying. I’m not a shopaholic, but I’m sure I could now have some expensive, coveted item if I hadn’t made so many bad purchases.

Now I’m going to go put on my jeans. They go with almost everything, don’t they? But wait…I just washed them and I doubt that I’ll be able to zip them up—especially after that brownie I ate last night.

I resolve...

2011-01-04T18:17:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I staged an intervention for myself—OK, maybe it was just a New Year's resolution. But I decided I would monitor my game-playing on the iPad and cut back. It was getting to be addictive, if not already there.

I knew I was addicted to my iPad when, while playing a game on it, I stopped for a second to wonder where I’d put my iPad. It’s like looking for your glasses while they’re perched on your head, only worse.

When I pick up the iPad, I go first to my e-mails and reply or delete, as needed. Then, I go online, mostly to check my Facebook page—although I don’t know why. Much of the information either doesn’t involve me or is ho-hum. And I have nothing to say either, except when I want to publicize another blog post.

If I’m in the mood (translation: feeling creative), I’ll open My Writing Nook and start a blog post. Much of the time, I’m not in the mood.

That’s when Boggle gets clicked. And I’m off poking at letters and forming words. Game after game after game. When I get tired of this, I go to Solitaire, which doesn’t have the same level of attraction for me. I'm good for about five deals.

So far, I’ve managed to cut short the time I spend playing Boggle and Solitaire. It’s Day 2, and I’m holding up. For each of these days, I've allowed myself a couple of playing sessions and moved on to something else. That something else might be unhealthy snacking or watching TV, but I can only deal with one bad habit at a time.

(Anyone have suggestions for other cool iPad games?)

Desperately seeking words

2010-12-30T13:35:00.000-06:00

My first indication that I was losing my vocabulary came years ago at work —I was middle-aged then—and I was telling our then-Graphics department about something I wanted printed on… I knew it began with a “p,” but all I could come up with was “partridge.” I didn’t say it out loud because (thank goodness) I realized it was not the right word. Eventually, probably only two minutes but it seemed longer, I sputtered “Parchment!” It scared me a little. I wasn’t even in menopause yet.

It’s not easy to be a writer who can’t always remember words. An online thesaurus is my pal, but I don’t use it for the maligned practice of coming up with fancier words to say simple things. I go to this trusty tool to find the word that I’m sure is in my head…someplace. I’ll be typing merrily along and suddenly I’m stumped. Let’s say I want to say something like mutilate, but I know that’s not the word I want. I’m confident there’s a word that’s a better fit—one that I use all the time. I just can’t bring it to the frontal lobes. So, assuming I can come up with a word that’s close in meaning, the thesaurus gives me a fighting chance. I may even know what letter it starts with—in this case, I’m sure the word starts with an “m.” But that’s as far as I can get, until the thesaurus offers up maim. Ahhh. That’s it!

Not being able to retrieve words can take its toll on the marital relationship too. When I want to say something to my husband, I use the handiest words available. Unfortunately, he can’t read my mind (although after all this time he should be able to accommodate my verbal affliction). So a typical conversation goes something like this:

Me: Can you get me the thing?

Him: What?

Me: You know, the thing, the round thing.

Him: What?

Me: The thing with holes…to catch pasta. The…strainer? Sieve?

Him: You mean the colander?

When I’m groping for a word that’s part of a request, he stares at me, a deer definitely caught in the headlights. He is not only confused but, being a helpful sort, he’s also frustrated. Sometimes his “What?” seems to be getting testier, not unlike the GPS lady when she needs to say “Recalculating,” for the fifth time.

While I'm desperately grasping at words, he may smile smugly. But I know we’ll have this kind of conversation in reverse later this evening. After all, he’s in his 60s too.

Health tips—follow at your own peril

2010-12-18T16:20:00.000-06:00

The media and pharmaceutical researchers are trying to drive me crazy. I’m almost there.

Every now and then, articles in newspapers and magazines and reports on the nightly news tout study results that indicate a substance—vitamin, supplement, prescription, food—or an activity is the new miracle that will keep us from getting just about everything bad: cancer, heart attacks, strokes, dementia, wrinkles, old.

So we gleefully buy supplies of whatever it is and follow the regimen—for a while. Sometimes a long while. Then, a new report comes out saying just the opposite. Here are some of the conflicts that have me in a tizzy:

Then: Take Vitamin E. It'll help you avoid heart attacks, strokes, dementia, and maybe cancer. My parents bought into this and stocked up on bottles of Vitamin E softgels from Walgreen’s.

Now: Don't take Vitamin E supplements. Forget what you've heard about it; it doesn't do any of those wonderful things we said it would. But Vitamin D? It's a wonder drug.

Then: (See “Now,” above.) Take Vitamin D. It’s a wonder drug. Ward off cancer, heart ailments, strokes, osteoporosis, dementia. Take large doses, at least 2000 IUs a day.

Now: It’s possible that the new recommendations for Vitamin D were too optimistic and at too high levels. More research pending…

Then: Take Fosamax if you have osteoporosis or its prelude, osteopenia. This miraculous drug will make your brittle bones stronger and rebuild bone you’ve lost.

Now: Stop taking Fosamax if you’ve taken it 5 years or more. Studies show it can actually cause certain fractures of the femur. It’s also been linked to “jaw death” and esophageal problems. (This is not a universal recommendation by all doctors, but many agree with this.)

Then: Take Hormone Replacement Therapy: estrogen and progesterone. You’ll stay young and healthy and stop having hot flashes and other menopause mayhem. This medication can even ward off dementia!

Now: Oops. A large study showed that many women had more heart attacks, strokes, and even dementia if they were on these medications for a long time (more than 6 years). This is still a controversial topic. There’s also zero proof that the medications can keep women youthful.

Then: Never leave the house without sunscreen. Wear it at all times, even on cloudy days.

Now: Make sure you get about 15 minutes of sun exposure (without sunscreen) to make sure you get your Vitamin D.

I might be better off if I didn’t read or listen to any of the medical news reports, but I might also miss out on the regimens that can save my life—or at least make it healthier.

The best tip of all? Buy pharmaceutical stock and you’ll at least be richer, or rich enough to afford the medicines you'll need to counteract the medicines you took earlier. (Caution: This tip is null and void if the company you invest in gets sued or its "miracle" drug tanks.)

Is it April yet?

2010-12-07T22:06:00.001-06:00

A few days ago, as I watched the first snowflakes swirl around my feet, I had one question: When’s spring?

You’d think that living my whole life—60-plus years, no exceptions—in the Chicago area would soften my dislike of winter, but it seems to be getting stronger.

Last year, in January, I was heartened to notice that the days were flying by, even those miserable, bone-chilling, white-knuckle-driving days. (Unfortunately, spring and summer flew by too.) But it’s always the beginning of winter, or wintry weather, that gets me down in the dumps every year. And it's getting worse.

I'm back in the routine of sitting in front of my bright S.A.D. lamp each morning. I'm still not sure if it helps, but it sheds a nice light on my crossword puzzle and morning coffee.

Last year I was determined to come up with things I like about winter. The one that came to mind then was "sweaters." I do love winter sweaters—cashmere, merino wool, bulky blends—all in saturated jewel colors that would be inappropriate in warm weather.

I also like boots. Slick leather boots with delicate heels, definitely not suitable for sloshing in snow. But whenever I want to wear a pair of good boots to a party, I'm forced to carry them in a bag and put on my "galoshes" instead. (They're not really galoshes—just dorky but practical footwear designed to keep you warm, dry, and upright—but not fashionable.)

In the coming weeks, I'll make an effort to add to my joys-of-winter list. In the meantime, I'm off to see if I still have that thermal underwear to put on under my pants for the walk from my car to the parking lot at work. Brrrrrrrrrr.

Games People (but not me) Play

2010-11-21T17:34:00.000-06:00

When it came to table games, my mother considered me a disappointment. She and her friends had a long history of playing cards: Poker, Gin Rummy, Canasta, Kaluki (does anyone still remember that one?). Then Mah-Jongg became the rage and continued to be the highlight of the ladies’ get-togethers for as long as they were able to get together. I was surprised that these close friends—who found lots to gossip and complain about—couldn’t seem to be in each other’s company for long without a game to occupy them. For me, just being with friends and eating something was enough entertainment.

It’s not as if others in my generation didn’t play some of the same games, especially Mah-Jongg. Many still do. I tried to learn Mah-Jongg, but I never really got it. I’d like to think it’s not because I didn’t have the mental capacity. I just didn’t care enough about it and didn’t want to spend my time that way. My mother didn’t coerce me any further, but I knew she wished I’d been interested.

I was grateful for my mother’s passion for card games and Mah-Jongg. It kept her busy in the years after my father died. Almost every day there was some activity that involved somebody’s home, baked goods—maybe even lunch—and a folding table set up for some serious playing (but not serious money).

As a child and teenager I liked playing card games. From War to Crazy Eights to something called “Pishy Paishy,” my friends and I had a good time occasionally playing them indoors when the weather wasn’t so nice. I also tried Poker, but that didn’t go very far. I liked board games, like Monopoly (but only when there was enough time to play this long, money-oriented game), Clue (my very favorite), and later, The Game of Life (not terribly exciting, but good for a few laughs). Scrabble was fun too, and more to this English major’s liking because it involves words.

I don’t object to games occasionally at parties, but I admit to being coerced reluctantly into playing and then often having a great time. This is different from scheduled weekly or monthly games. It’s just an activity to bring the group together after a hearty meal. I prefer word games, like CatchPhrase, and until a Halloween party a few years ago, I warmed up to a sketching game, like Pictionary. That is, until I was given a challenging task—drawing an oil well (I can’t remember what I was supposed to be depicting). I just couldn’t make my scribbling clear to my team, and we lost. Nix that game from now on.

Today, I don’t care if occasional games are on the party agenda or not, but I’m happier when we forget about them or time runs out. My only game passions these days are solo and electronic: Boggle or Solitaire. In recent years, I’ve learned of friends and colleagues who are involved in a Bunco club. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I reject it out of principle.

On the web site, My Jewish Learning, Senior Editor Meredith Lewis says, “It's…said that when the last woman of a mah-jongg groups dies, it's her job to ‘bring’ the mah-jongg set with her to the World to Come.” Sorry, Mom, that I didn’t keep up the tradition here, but I’m hoping you’re up there playing regularly.

We ain’t what we used to be. We’re better!

2010-11-14T18:31:00.000-06:00

This year one of the members of our teenage club decided to host a reunion dinner meeting for us on a Friday night in late October. It was timed to coincide with the 50th class reunion for those who attended one of the two high schools our club spanned. What better time to call the girls together than when some of the out-of-towners would be in Chicago?

The fact that the club reunion meeting was held in a residence in a 55-or-older complex didn’t deter our members from feeling 16 again.

In the late 1950s, it was the era of the social club. There were popular clubs, not-so-popular clubs, clubs you were dying to get into but couldn’t, and clubs that would accept almost anybody. I’m sure everyone has a different notion of where our club, the A.D.O.s, fit in.

Too much time has passed for me to remember what A.D.O. stood for, but I can remember that we were often annoyingly referred to as “After Dark Osculaters”—with osculate meaning “kiss.” Since it was the 50s, if we thought about doing more than kissing, we didn’t share that thought with anybody.

The reunion meeting would have been “called to order” at 5:30, except that, for various reasons, many of the members were lost, held up in traffic, or had trouble seeing in the dark because of cataracts. Members came from as far away as Texas, Arizona, California, Washington state, and Glenview. As they arrived, everyone embraced each other, even while asking, “Who are you, again?”

After getting over the shock of faces that, although attractive, resembled our parents rather than the ingénues we were back in the day, we all remarked on how wonderful we’re looking—and how well we’re holding up.

It got a little noisy as we all squealed with delight to hear what’s going on in each others’ lives, but, sadly, there was no Sergeant-at-Arms to shush us, and possibly fine us, for talking out of turn. Our most respected and feared Sergeant-at-Arms is one of the few who left us far too soon.

Excitement at seeing each other after so many years was so consuming, not many people consumed the lovely snacks on the coffee table. When dinner was announced, each of us grabbed a plate and marched into the kitchen, where a fabulous spread included chicken, fruit, vegetables, twice-baked potatoes, and a terrific salad made with Chinese cabbage, Ramen noodles, and slivered almonds. Dessert included many home-baked items contributed by members and other delicious pastries we gobbled up while lamenting recent weight gain.

Issues discussed included—

• Living with a retired spouse and trying to maintain one’s own space
• Keeping up with growing grandchildren's activities and sports
• Keeping fit with a personal trainer
• The wonderful, full lives we’re all leading
• Gossip about our classmates and others we used to hang out with.

Remarkably, issues not discussed during the meeting included—

• Loneliness
• Illness
• Regrets
• General kvetching.

While gabbing enthusiastically with their long-lost club sisters, not one of the members uttered the words we heard so often years ago: “I wonder who will be picking me up tonight! I hope it’s him.” (Him being defined as the crush du jour during any month of the 1950s.) We imagine that not one of the members has an inkling as to who their him was at the time—except for the ones who married their crushes.

As the evening became late night, the adjournment ritual began. It took a little longer than 1950s meetings due to enactment of the Jewish goodbye, which means leaving a gathering at least twenty minutes after announcing one’s departure. The interim was filled with “Good to see you” and “How do I get out of this development?” and “Can I follow you to the highway?” A new addition to this ritual was “Will you take some of this food home?” and “Drive safely”—thus confirming the fact that we have become our mothers.

Vows were made to keep in touch. And we will.

Does this Boggle app make me look fat?

2010-10-25T13:23:00.000-05:00

Sure, I know an online Boggle game can't make me look fat...by itself. But I contend that this addictive pastime is helping to make me fat. I can't place all the blame on this simple electronic addiction. I'm eating more and exercising less—except for the three days last week I did the one-mile Leslie Sansone workout. After three days, since it hadn't become habit yet, I slacked off.

It all started when I saw my husband playing Boggle on his iTouch. I found the Boggle game on the Web and played many games. I wasn't thrilled with having to use the keyboard to type the words (especially when I got a zero on one game because my fingers were on the wrong keys). So, whenever I could, I usurped my spouse's iTouch and played the touch-screen version...and played and played. I gave up the little device when he wanted to use it, and I was always considerate enough to charge it after I had practically worn the battery down.

Then I got an iPad. No surprise, the first app I bought was Boggle. Not only did I have the beloved game on a device of my own, I had one with a much larger screen! I downloaded other apps too—like Solitaire, and even a writing program—but after reading my e-mails and scanning Facebook to see what my daughters and grandsons are doing, I always go back to Boggle.

I know it's not bad to play games (it helps you relax and reduces stress) and word games are good for keeping the mind sharp, but I also know I've stretched the limit. There are times I should be moving about, doing laundry, taking a walk, cleaning the counter. Or if I'm going to be sedentary for a while anyway, I should be writing. But it's hard for me to break away. It's not uncommon to hear me muttering, "One more game. Just one more game."

So, if I've gained a few pounds and am having trouble zipping up my jeans, I can blame Boggle—and second helpings of just about everything. But it's not so bad. I can stop any time I want to. As soon as I break my 84 point personal best.

It’s a ghost…it’s a goblin…EEEK! It’s me.

2010-10-17T16:55:00.000-05:00

I look around at the decorated houses and the aisles of seasonal goods. Horrible creatures dripping rubbery blood. Skeletons with evil smiles. Although I’d rather look away, these things aren’t so scary anymore. Here’s what gives me that creepy feeling today:

• Looking in the magnifying mirror—Oh, the chin hairs, the veins around my nose, the vanishing eyebrows!

• Looking in any mirror with my glasses on—Has my hair always been that frizzy?

• Trying to zip up last summer's Bermuda shorts—Did my hips expand like that in a mere 12 months?

• Glancing at the calendar and wondering what happened to last week (or looking at my watch and wondering what happened to the last three hours)—Does time really advance faster when you’re in your sixties?

• Starting to tell an old story to a new friend and suddenly realizing I'm not quite sure how it goes anymore—it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers….

• Singing an old favorite song and forgetting the words I used to know so well—See above.

• Reading the daily obituaries and finding out about the deaths of contemporaries—I know I should stop reading them, but I can't.

• Getting indigestion and wondering if it could possibly be my heart—The scariest of all.

It’s not just these self-absorbing items that frighten me. I also fear the big things, like nuclear war, the Taliban, a meteor heading toward Earth, and the Tea Partiers. But I feel better about cowering from—and kvetching about—everyday horrors.

Happy Halloween!

Wii again

2010-10-14T12:38:00.001-05:00

Earlier this year, I wrote about getting a Wii and actually enjoying bowling and other sports that I’m awful at. Nevertheless, it was fun to try, and I vowed to practice. But since March, I hadn’t even looked at the Wii, much less used it. My husband was one up on me: He played with it again about a week or two later. And that was it.

Then my daughter and her husband got a Wii, and after feeling sheepish about not setting it up after several months, they got it going. When I visited my twin grandsons this week, they exuberantly dragged me downstairs to go bowling with them.

We bowled five games, and I’m still pretty lousy at it, but it was great fun. The fact that my 6-year-old grandsons beat me didn’t matter at all. Here was an activity that we were all enjoying and having a wonderful time doing together. (The fact that one of them turns out to be a gloating winner and a sore loser was a little troublesome...During the last game I worried about what would happen if I won.)

Later in the week, my enthusiasm for the Wii and the bowling game hadn’t waned. That’s why my husband and I bowled a couple of games after dinner on our Wii last night. Of course, he beat me. But I was pleased that we were again using our indulgent purchase—and doing something other than watching TV. We hope to keep it up. As long as Grandma doesn’t become such a good bowler she causes a tot meltdown. (I’m dreaming, aren’t I?)

The product vanishes

2010-09-18T19:02:00.000-05:00

There’s a crime spree under way, and I think I’m the perpetrator. My crime? Liking a product a whole lot.

When I find something that’s incredibly useful or enjoyable, I continue to loyally buy it. The second time around, I may buy a large size, if it’s sold that way, and it takes me a while to use it up. When my supply runs low, I go back to the store, looking high and low but not finding the product where it used to be. When I ask a store clerk about it, I’m crushed when I hear those terrible words: “Oh, that? It’s been discontinued.”

This happens so often, I’ve come to the conclusion the problem is me. I am the kiss of death to an otherwise fine product. This has happened with—

• Lipsticks. A lovely, youthful shade I was sure I’d wear forever was taken off the market after being a best seller for many years

• OTC pill varieties. The easy-to-swallow Motrin (a really teeny one compared to its other varieties) was suddenly discontinued. I switched to Advil because it still comes in a smallish gel caplet. Now I'm hoarding them, just in case...

• Peanut butter. I was ecstatic to find a natural peanut butter with no sodium, no sugar, nothing but peanuts. It was aptly called “Just Peanuts” and distributed under Jewel Food’s President’s Choice brand. Late last year, it disappeared from store shelves. I’ve been buying other brands—when I can find any without sodium—but they’re just not the same. (I learned that my daughter was also a fan of this product, so this tendency must be hereditary.)
• Shampoo and conditioner. I loved the way a product called Sunsilk Curly worked on my hair. I even found it in a travel size so I wouldn’t have to fill up a little bottle (and risk making a mess). Then it was gone. Walgreen’s no longer carried it, and it was nowhere to be found at the supermarkets and Ulta.

These are just a few examples. The list is much, much longer. And if you’ve ever wanted to buy the products I’ve coveted—and caused to disappear—I apologize.

I can be rehabilitated, I think. I'll just keep switching products and let loyalty be damned.

Desperately seeking passion

2010-09-16T21:02:00.002-05:00

With “passion” in the title, I suspect you’re looking for something along the lines of “Sex and the Sixties” or a tale of uninteresting foreplay. Sorry. I’m really lamenting the fact that I don’t have a pastime I’m passionate about—something that can keep me occupied if I ever decide to fully retire.

In answer to the question, “What’s your passion?” I’m stumped. I enjoy writing, but I don’t do much with it. (Writing for work counts now, but I am certainly not going to compose articles of interest to natural gas industry employees once I’m not on the job.) I love to read, and I’d be miserable without a few good novels on my nightstand. It’s an interest, but not a passion.

When I was a young housewife/mother, decades ago, I went through the same soul-searching. Before I returned to college for my bachelor’s degree, I tried art—going so far as enrolling in the “Famous Artist’s Home Study Course” and taking continuing ed courses in watercolors, sculpture, and photography. I wasn’t good at any of them, but my worst efforts were created (or occurred) in sculpture class.

Then I got interested in music. I bought an acoustic guitar—at a shop that sold guitars to Segovia!—and started taking lessons. After months, I could strum the chords to accompany my singing. Both were barely acceptable. I tried to learn classical guitar but soon realized this wasn’t my forte.

So I still liked art and music, but knew I wasn’t going anywhere with either of them. Then I went back to school, got my English degree, got hired as part-time editorial assistant, which grew into a full-time career—and here I am, 33 years later, still trying to find myself.

I still love to write, but you’re looking at the output here. Not bad, but not enough. Is sixty-something (and on the higher end of the decade) too late to find passion? I guess it doesn’t just fall into one’s lap or, in today’s terms, pop up on-screen during an unrelated search…although that could happen.

It’s been suggested that I 1) enroll in a Pilates class, 2) take writing courses, 3) learn jewelry making, and 4) just do something; interest follows action (loosely taken from an early Dr. Wayne Dyer book). Except for jewelry making, they’re all good ideas. I plan to take action….soon. Any other suggestions are most welcome—as long as they don’t involve sports.

The calm (and joy) before the storm

2010-09-07T18:29:00.001-05:00

I haven’t had much to complain about lately (knock wood and pooh, pooh)—except the end of summer and inevitable coming of winter. And I’ve even experienced an exhilarating Labor Day weekend (despite thinking about the fact that the days are getting shorter, the leaves will be falling off the trees, rain will become snow, and….). But back to the present and my high-serotonin weekend:

On Saturday, we celebrated my son-in-law’s birthday, which meant I was able to spend some time with him and my daughter and, of course, my 6-year-old grandsons. I love them more than I can describe, but after a few hours of ear-splitting shrieks and their usual shenanigans, I was ready to retreat. But it was a good visit, and I was smiling on the way out.

On Sunday morning, we met with a beloved high school friend and her husband, who were in town for a wedding. Not only did we get to spend a few hours with this delightful couple, we also walked around Millennium Park—my first time there, embarrassing as it is to admit.

We had tickets to Million Dollar Quartet for Sunday afternoon. I was prepared to like it because of the nostalgic music and the great reviews I’d read. Like it? It was amazing. The intimate theater rocked with some of the best singing, playing, and acting I’ve experienced in a long time. I’d go to see it again, but given the hundreds of shows I haven’t yet been to, it would be impractical—and expensive.

On Monday, we enjoyed barbecued steakburgers on the deck of our dear friends in Lincoln Park. An eating frenzy was followed by a walk around the beautiful neighborhood and satisfying gossip.

The weather cooperated for the whole weekend, so everything we did outside was doubly enjoyable. How lucky am I to have had such a full and joyful Labor Day holiday! I’m truly grateful.

And now I can go back to whining about something-or-other, as soon as the glow wears off.

Irresponsible me

2010-08-26T16:29:00.000-05:00

I don’t text while driving (or ever) or use my cell phone in the car (unless I’m waiting for a slow freight train to pass). I don’t polish my nails, put on mascara, eat breakfast (except for an occasional granola bar), or read the newspaper while behind the wheel. But I’m guilty of distracted driving because…I THINK.

What do I think about? It can be anything, from wondering if the shoes I have on really go with these pants or if my darling grandsons liked their first day of school. Sometimes it’s as involved as figuring out how much I can earn if I roll over a CD at the going rate of…oh, about 0% interest (or just a tad above).

I’m not sure I could get myself to break this hazardous habit—the one that makes me drive past the street where I was supposed to turn, forget that I wanted to go to Trader Joe’s and not Dominick’s, and otherwise mess with my directional competency.

Another, less threatening hazard caused by thinking while driving is my inability to remember what brilliant idea I’ve come up with by the time I get where I’m going.

The only way to stop the good, bad, and ugly thoughts from intruding on my driving is to meditate—a practice probably not recommended by driving instructors or cops. Chanting “om” or “dri-i-i-ve” might clear my brain, but the downside might be a deep, relaxing sleep, also not recommended by driving instructors—and cops.

So I’ll continue to stay off the cell phone and obey the Rules of the Road. But don’t mess with my divergent, but important, thoughts. (Wait! I had a great idea for the ending of this blog post while coming home from Walgreen’s this morning. What the heck was it?)

Fershtay*?

2010-08-25T21:43:00.000-05:00

My Yiddish is returning in my old age—although I never knew it much in the first place. Growing up, I understood enough Yiddish to realize that my mother was talking about me to one of her sisters or that she was discussing something that my youthful ears weren’t supposed to hear. I could usually get a good idea of the subject matter with the handful of words I knew.

But as I became an adult, began my career (where the Jew to gentile ratio has always been about 5:250), and traveled to far-away places, my vocabulary didn’t include Yiddish words beyond schlep.

In later life, I married for the second time, and my current and, I hope, forever husband is a Protestant, with no particular denomination affiliation. That means he’s a WASP and has little experience with a boisterous ethnic group. His relatives are lovely people, intelligent and sufficiently irreverent that we have a great deal in common and get along well. By now, my husband has become used to the in-your-face aspect of my family and Jewish friends. He enjoys it, or so he says.

What does this have to do with the return of my little-used Yiddish? As soon as I married him, I began to think in terms of the most colorful Yiddish words. Sometimes words pop out of my mouth unintentionally, when I haven’t thought about them in decades. Other times, they come to mind, but it's when I’m talking with non-Jewish acquaintances, so I’m forced to search for another word. But Yiddish words and expressions hit the mark like no others. Doesn’t farmisht describe the situation so much better than confused? And there’s no better way to reject something than by crossly uttering feh!

Recently, these words came to mind in place of their common—and expected—English ones:

• Mishegas when something is crazy, mixed up, especially when considering someone else’s emotional baggage.

• Nu, when waiting for an answer (instead of So?)

• Shpilkes, when I try to describe the driver who can’t stay in one lane for more than two seconds and has to weave in and out to get one car length ahead. He can’t sit still!

• Geshrey, when plain old scream doesn’t describe the sound that comes from the depth of the soul.

My husband likes to hear Yiddish words and learn what they mean. But when he tries to repeat one, he mispronounces it. I haven’t found many non-Jews who can say kvetch (to complain) in one syllable. Try it. Ask a non-Jewish friend or colleague (preferably one who hasn’t spent years surrounded by Jews) to say the word. It’s usually “ka-vetch.” Most can’t figure out how the k and v sounds can come out as one.
*Fershtay? It means “Do you understand?” It’s just not the same, is it?

A bit of Southern (California) charm

2010-08-21T12:30:00.004-05:00

If I've complained about the lack of good service these days (sounding like a typical old codger), I just found a place where good manners and friendliness still rules. Granted, it's just a hotel restaurant--with prices only an expense account could love--but it counts.

The hotel is a Hyatt, and if Hyatt trains it's waiters, kudos to them. As soon as I picked up the little jar of orange marmalade and grimaced slightly as I tried to twist it open, the waiter came over and offered to do it. This happened twice, with two different waiters (and I like orange marmalade). As I was dining alone both times, the waiters chatted with me in a welcoming, non-obtrusive way. Service was quick--but not too quick--efficient, and accommodating.

No, I'm not writing a restaurant review here. I just wanted to describe the pleasant mood I was in after my experiences with the friendliest waitstaff, hosts, and busboys, even the one who addressed me as "Madam."

Weighty issues

2010-08-05T18:20:00.000-05:00

After staying at a healthy weight for a couple of years, I’ve put on some pounds again. Right around the hips and belly. That means my jeans are snug and even pants with an elastic-waist—yes, I admit to wearing some of those—fit but squeeze me in the gut when I sit down.

It’s really only a few pounds. Or, is it? I’m not brave enough to get on the scale. I’ll be weighed at our wellness screening at work in September, and with that a month off, I have time to lose the flab. At least that’s what I keep saying to myself, especially when ordering fries instead of fruit with my turkey burger.

Then there’s the issue of my gym attendance. I was doing admirably for some time—well, admirably for me, which means at least once a week, maybe twice. But I’ve gotten lazy and can find so many reasons not to go.

But I have a back-up plan. This may sound like pure rationalization, but I swear that I put in thousands of steps when I spend the afternoon shopping. I always park far away from the stores I’m visiting—mainly because I still think of my 2008 RAV4 as new and try to avoid dings. And I’m a fast walker. I’m also a slow shopper. Before making a purchasing decision, I have to look at practically everything available. That’s a lot of walking.

I’m also a fidgety person. You may laugh, but I did read somewhere that people who fidget burn more calories. If you don’t believe me, just type “fidgeting and weight loss” in your browser and you’ll see how many articles come up. (Most are years old, so a new theory may have replaced this one by now, but I’m sticking to this delicious wisdom.)

So these are my excuses for not walking laps around the track and doing reps on the hip abductor machine. I have a treadmill at home, and although I don’t hang clothes on it, it’s been in the upright (closed) position for at least a year. This is not my equipment of choice for exercise. (Nor was the recumbent bicycle we got rid of in the late 90s.)

Today was another afternoon of walking around the mall, after a hearty but healthy lunch with a friend at Stir Crazy. But still, the pants I tried on at three stores didn’t quite snap together at the waist. Or, if they did, they made my hips look like stuffed sausage. The good news is that when I tried a size larger (that is, the size I used to wear a few years ago), they were too big. So I’m not too far gone yet. It’s only a few pounds, and I can do it!

I hope this positive attitude lasts. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to see if we still have pita chips I can snack on before dinner.

Pet peeve

2010-07-31T13:49:00.000-05:00

Every now and then, I think about how nice it would be to have a dog. An adorable little one, like a Lhasa Apso or a Yorkie. I watch “Dogs 101” on Animal Planet to find out what qualities each breed has and which are suitable for an older couple who aren't too keen on frequent grooming. But I also watch “It’s Me or the Dog,” and the problems people face with their unruly pets should probably make me forget the whole idea.

And while most people were watching the Super Bowl this winter, I tuned in to “Puppy Bowl.” If you haven’t seen that alternative to the Big Game, it’s worth switching channels next year to catch a few minutes of it. (Don’t tell the diehard football fans at your party that I suggested it.)

The idea of getting a dog came to me as I watched my mother-in-law deal with widowhood. I’m not sure how she would have gotten along without her adorable apricot poodle, Baby. Not only was Baby a connection with my late father-in-law, but he was a reason to get up, go for walks, go to the vet and the groomer, and most of all, someone to talk to and play with.

We live in a townhome with a small, brick-paved patio. That means no opening the door and shooing little what’s its-name out to the yard to do its business. One of us would have to get dressed and walk the little ball of fluff—probably so little that it would have a small bladder and have to go more often. I see my neighbors on frigid days, hunkering into their parkas while their dogs sniff around the fir trees out behind our garages. That’s when I’m glad we’re dog-less.

I’ve considered a cat. But I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not sure I want to do it again. The scratches on the dining room table, the snagged drapes, the persistent smell in the green shag carpet because, we presumed, Oliver thought it was grass or chlorophyll litter. I have to admit, though, to reconsidering after watching “Cats 101,” and seeing all the beautiful breeds I never knew existed. But still…I like my furniture, and I’m not sure where I’d want to park the litter box.

For now, I’ll continue to admire sweet little pups and kitties and then quickly walk away before my I cave in to cuteness.

By the way, did I mention that my husband’s allergic?

Murder She Watches ...and Watches

2010-07-24T12:02:00.000-05:00

I’m ready to admit I have a problem and should get myself to a meeting of True Crime Addicts Anonymous (TCAA)—if only someone would establish such a group. I love, love, love true crime shows like: 48 Hours Mystery, Cold Case Files (the one narrated by Bill Kurtis, not to be confused with the overly dramatic, fictional show), Dateline, The First 48, Forensic Files, Notorious, and Snapped, to name a few.

I am drawn to stories about husbands who kill their wives and, sometimes, wives who kill their husbands. They always start out as a deliriously happy couple with their adorable children, pillars of the community and their church—and then, mayhem and murder. What I love most is the moment the DNA matches, an alibi falls apart, or a long-lost witness finds God and comes forward. Then, at last, the detectives nail the SOB! Sweet.

I have also read many books by Ann Rule, the former policewoman turned crime writer.

If there were a TCAA, here are the 12 steps I would probably have to go through, one by one:

1. I admit I am powerless over tuning into these programs. I’ve even watched reruns of 48 Hours Mystery and then watched them again when they became 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on cable.

2. I confess to watching particularly juicy stories, like the Scott/Lacy Peterson case over and over. I freely admit I have told myself I’m just going to see the part where Amber finds out what her seemingly single boyfriend was up to, but I keep watching anyway. I am sorry about this waste of time.

3. I solemnly swear I have no intent to murder my spouse and I’m not gathering ideas by watching these shows. I apologize to said spouse for making him nervous.

4. I promise to erase any memory of words like ethylene glycol and cholino-succinate and other sneaky poisons used in so many of these cases—and sometimes discovered only when, or if, the body is exhumed.

5. I apologize to any friend or family member who has called me during the last 15 minutes of one of these shows. I apologize too for my reaction at the first ring of the phone (“Who the hell can that be?”) and for saying, “I’ll call you back later,” when I do answer it.

6. I beg my husband for forgiveness for all the times I’ve shushed him when he’s tried to talk to me during the shows. (But, seriously, couldn’t he wait a few minutes for the next commercial break?)

7. I am sorry if I silently offended owners and operators of self-storage facilities, as well as those who rent the units. The only time I accompanied my husband to our newly acquired storage space, I shuttered as we walked past all those metal doors, wondering if any of them housed dead bodies sealed in oil drums. (I’ve seen quite a few episodes that end like this.)

8. I will make amends for all the food that overcooked or languished in the microwave while I stood in front of the TV waiting for the jury’s verdict.

9—12. I own up to the fact that I won’t take the time to declare the last four steps because I think an episode of Forensic Files comes on in a few minutes.

I've crossed over

2010-07-22T18:30:00.000-05:00

I never thought I'd be saying this, but I'm typing this post on an Apple iPad! Me, the PC aficionado, who's had to listen to rhapsodic raves on the joys of owning an Apple product from my graphic designer husband, who's had to hear "You wouldn't have this problem with a Mac!" every time something crashed on my HP laptop...I have an iPad!

Typing is a challenge using the on-screen keyboard. What's not apparent here is that I've had to retype at least every other word. and when I want to add something so unusual (sarcasm alert) as an apostrophe, I need to click another screen for the rest of the keys. I can only hope that this learning experience is helping my aging brain ward off dementia.

The real reason for getting this extravagant gadget is that I want to be able to write while traveling. And I will--in between Boggle games (one of the first apps I bought).

Watch this space...

Gainfully employed

2010-07-15T15:39:00.000-05:00

It’s been 3-1/2 years since I downshifted to part-time work, and people often ask me why I continue to work at all. (These are usually people who have already retired and, I think, are looking for someone to play with—and by that I mean lunches, shopping, visiting.) My answer always begins with “There are three good reasons I’m still working.” At that point, those who asked just to be polite are starting to regret the effort.

Here are my three top reasons, not necessarily in order of importance. And, with luck, I’ll think of a fourth by the time I’m done.

1) I love the income stream. Not only am I receiving an hourly wage for my 21 hours per week (although no vacation, illness, or holiday pay), but the company is still contributing to my retirement account—and still allowing me to add my own funds to the supplemental retirement account. That’s golden, even “bleeping” golden… (sorry, Chicagoland readers; I’ve heard the Blago tapes so often, I’ve picked up the lingo).

With the up and down stock markets, the on-again, off-again recession, and just plain old uncertainly, I like the fact that I can bring in money almost as fast as I can spend it.

2) I enjoy the work, most of the time. I get to be imaginative in my approach to marketing natural gas industry training and conferences, and it's delightfully challenging. I write a monthly e-newsletter and the copy for our brochures, catalogs, ads, and web site and have a lot of creative freedom.
There are always tasks I don’t much care for, but they’re usually short-term. I can also turn down a high level of responsibility for an ongoing task I don’t like. When “but I’m only here three days a week” doesn’t get me out of it, mumbling “Maybe I’ll retire” usually does.

3) I love my colleagues. Or, I very much like most of them, but I truly love some of them. I enjoy gossiping with them, hearing their after-work stories, and, especially, telling my own day-off stories. And when it comes to the women, I like to see what they’re wearing. Most important of all, they’re fun to work with.

I haven’t yet thought of a solid fourth reason, but I do believe that if I were not working those three days, I would sleep too much, watch too much TV, shop way over my budget, and more often grab my husband’s iTouch to waste another hour playing Boggle.

Old friends are new again

2010-07-13T18:05:00.000-05:00

There are still many simple pleasures in our seventh decade. The other day I had lunch followed by delightful shopping with a long-time friend. We first met when we were both back-to-college moms—I thought I might be the only older student there, and she probably thought the same. Then we were seated next to each other during a break one day and revealed our backgrounds. She had a daughter about 12 or so, a year older than one of mine. Since then, through the years, we’ve met for dinner or lunch occasionally. But our hectic schedules were out of sync, and months—years—would pass without any contact.

We connected again on Facebook (it does have its advantages), and started making plans to get together. She’s newly retired, and I’m semi-retired, so we felt like ladies of leisure when we met recently to have a slow-paced meal with more chatting than eating. Since my next “obligation” was a 3:00 hair appointment, I had time to show her my favorite shops, and we commiserated over all the expensive things we’d like to buy if only we could count on the stock market keeping our retirement funds intact. (Insert laughter here.)

We found it hard to believe that it was over 35 years ago since we were both wondering if we could blend into academic life after seeing our girls through their early years. Now, it’s as if we got reacquainted as very different people. We’re now grandmothers, we’ve pretty much run out of the energy we had when we were in our 30s and 40s. But with that energy also came some very low lows—tying our fragile self-esteem to what others did or said to us.

We’re not completely self-assured now. But we are comfortable. Sure, we commiserate over eyelashes that are getting skimpy, bags under our eyes that are getting baggier, and having to make that dreaded call to Medicare—the one in which you’re shouting into the phone “Enroll in Part B!” and the automatic system starts running a long spiel about Part D. But we’re also relaxed and happy that our daily commuting and work stress are behind us.

I wish I could end this with a funny line or twist, but I’m still basking in the glow of friendships—old and new.

Under the big top

2010-07-03T13:13:00.002-05:00

Have you noticed the tops that are fashionable now, the ones that billow out below the bustline—sort of like maternity wear of yore? Some even have those cute puffy sleeves like my old maternity tops. The availability of these styles is good news and bad news and good news:

The good news is that the loose, flowing fabric can cover a multitude of your ingestive sins, such as the bag of pita chips that disappeared while you were watching “The Good Wife.”

The bad news is that, unless you sport a perfectly flat belly, these loose-across the stomach styles can make you look pregnant.

The good news is that if anyone mistakenly asks you, “When are you due?” you can bask in the glory of knowing that at least one person on Earth thinks you may be young enough to actually get pregnant. This poor misguided soul thinks you haven’t gone through menopause yet.

My own reason for wearing one of these tops is that I’ve been enjoying food too much these past few months. While a hearty appetite can be a sign of good physical and mental health, my jeans and cropped pants don’t agree. In protest, they pinch and strain, displaying a more rounded belly than I remember seeing last year. My only recourse is to wear the big top that flowingly covers my bulge. And bravely risk looking pregnant.

Beam me up, please

2010-06-26T12:43:00.000-05:00

You know those exercises described step-by-step in magazine articles? For those over sixty, a vital step may be missing from the instructions:

Step 1. Get down on your hands and knees.

Step 2. Straighten your left leg.

Step 3. While straightening your left leg, raise your right arm.

Step 4. Hold for six seconds, lower, and repeat 10 times.

What’s missing? Step 5, telling you how to get up, sub-step by sub-step. For example:

Step 5a. Look around you to see if anyone is watching. (That is, anyone who would make fun of you while you struggle to get back to a standing position.) Alternative Step 5a: Look around you to see if anyone with a kind, understanding demeanor can help you if you are unable to follow the next sub-steps.)

Step 5b. If the coast is clear, press down hard on your hands in an attempt to boost yourself up. Try to squelch the “Ooph” and “Oy” and “Arghh” that will involuntarily escape from your voicebox.

Step 5c. Move your left leg from the kneeling position and place that foot firmly on the floor.

Step 5d. Look around again to make sure nobody is watching this. Be especially vigilant for anyone holding a digital video camera or cell phone—and who knows how to post on You Tube.

Step 5e. Placing all your weight on both hands and your left foot, and using all the strength you have left, elevate yourself to a standing position. Try not to stagger once you’re upright.

Step 5f. Vow to stick to walking and lifting 3-pound weights (from a standing position) ever after.

If there are Senior Olympics, I’m not entering.

2010-06-17T16:19:00.002-05:00

One day, while showering, I emitted a snuffle/breath that came out like a whistle. My unconventional reaction? I thought, “I can still whistle!” Why I assumed that a relatively useless skill (for me) like whistling would fade with age, I’m not sure, but I was glad to see that something of the old me (who, truth be told, rarely whistled) was intact.

Being habitually negative, I started to think about what I can't do anymore. I can no longer—

• Get up from sitting on the floor without thinking about how I’m going to balance weight on my hands to push myself up semi-gracefully. (Note: This can’t really be done with any gracefulness. And it’s usually accompanied by a grunt.)

• Sit anywhere for longer than 15 minutes without feeling achy—and making crackling noises—when I stand up.

• Fold the Chicago Tribune neatly while I’m reading it, despite the fact that it has shrunk considerably in the past year.

• Lift my packed suitcase, no matter how much I rely on lightweight Chico’s Travelers clothing. Thank goodness my new bag has spinner wheels. And I must always travel with my husband so he can hoist the bag onto the platform when we’re checking in. Similarly, I need him to lift the bag off the carousel when we arrive. (Fortunately, I also like traveling with him.)

• Remember the name of someone I’ve recently met, even if it was ten seconds ago.

• Digest broccoli gracefully. (This needs no further explanation. If you think otherwise, you’ll have to tap into your own gastrointestinal anecdotes.)

If there were true Senior Olympics, the games would include all of the above efforts, with the gold medal going to anyone whose dexterity (and inner health) matched that of a fifty-year-old. For me, even earning an honorable mention is a pipe dream. But I can still whistle.

Bite me

2010-06-03T12:47:00.001-05:00

I read a tip on Real Beauty's web site about how to get that “almost bitten” look for your lips. Are they kidding?

I concede that maybe this sexy, wicked look may work for someone in her early 20’s, and I know the writer was not even contemplating addressing someone like me. Besides, if I had that “almost bitten” look, the only message that would send is that I’m starting to show signs of dementia and couldn’t distinguish between my lips and my breakfast. Ouch.

Fraidy cat

2010-05-24T18:06:00.002-05:00

Have I mentioned before that I’m a fearful person? I’ve been that way for most of my life, although it’s been in remission at times. And recent studies show that some babies are born with thin skin when it comes to anxiety and fear. But I’m able to trace a few sources of my angst.

I was about 7 when I first experienced Frankenstein. My father took me to the movies to see “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.” You’re probably wondering what this wacky comedy has to do with fear. Remember, I was only 7. The jokes and slapstick shtick went over my head, but at first sight of that ugly, towering monster, I put my head down in my father’s lap, taking only occasional peeks at the screen. I insisted on having the hall light on outside my bedroom that night and for many nights after. Even today, I’m uncomfortable in the dark.

In my late teens, I went to see “Psycho” with a date. I had heard that it was terrifying, and I’ll never forget the scene when you find out what Norman Bates' mother really looks like. But the scene that stayed with me was the Janet Leigh character's brutal murder in the shower. Even today, when I’m alone in the house and take a shower, I lock the bathroom door and keep a phone handy.

As a little girl—little enough to be carried by my father—I was terrified when the tree near my grandparents’ apartment began to shed large caterpillar-like, creepy things all over the sidewalk. During that period, my dad had to carry me. I refused to walk for fear of stepping on those scary “creatures.” Fortunately, this one didn’t carry over to my adulthood. As long as I know they’re not alive, I’m OK with walking around them and even stepping on tree droppings. It’s the live stuff that makes me cringe: grasshoppers, crickets, dragonflies…and the bulgy-eyed cicadas that invaded a couple of years ago.

But not all my fears have links to early trauma. Or, if they do, I’ve repressed the incidents. I can’t consciously come up with reasons I fear small, enclosed spaces like elevators or MRIs; driving on snow; deep water; tongue depressors, and a few other things I’m too afraid to admit.

Roosevelt had it right. Fear itself is my worst enemy—along with the nightly news, daily papers, and radio reports. It’s like these media are taunting me:“You think you’ve got troubles? Wait’ll you hear what happened today!”

Things I wish I could tell my mother

2010-04-26T16:22:00.009-05:00

I now understand why, every time you were hospitalized, the first thing you said to me was “Bring me my tweezers and a magnifying mirror.” At my age now, I don’t think I’d want to be too far from those items for any length of time. Those wayward hairs seem to crop up out of nowhere.

Banded bottoms are back! I apologize for rolling my eyes while you wandered up and down the aisles of TJ Maxx or Carson’s complaining that nobody made tops with banded bottoms anymore. “That’s old,” I said. “Nobody wears those styles anymore.” Lo and behold: I can’t browse a clothing rack now without seeing those (I still think) unsightly banded bottoms. Sorry, Mom. But you must have known that everything comes around again…eventually.

I wish I’d listened more carefully to your stories of your childhood, my early childhood, and other memories. I have hundreds of questions I’d love to have answers to, and I can’t think of anyone else who would know.

I have a little more empathy now about your insisting on describing every symptom you had, even those that should remain in the bathroom… When I complained, you said “Daddy’s gone. I have no one else to tell these things to.” Now that I’m five years older since you passed away, I understand these concerns a little better (but I still wouldn’t describe them to my daughters).

I still have all the quarters you were saving for your mah jongg, poker, and Kaluki games. Someday I’ll spend them or take them to a bank, but right now they’re part of a shrine that includes many of your other collections I can’t yet part with.

You didn’t live to see the Great Recession of 2008-2009, and I’m grateful for that. Seeing your stock purchases—with which you were much more astute than I’ll ever be—nosedive would have made you crazy with anger. But now that I’ve experienced my own loss and worry over finances, I not only recognize your Depression-era frugality, as I always have, I can almost feel it. I apologize for laughing when you saved Styrofoam produce trays and every tie band that entered the house.

My anger and resentment evaporated in those last terrible days you were in intensive care, and they haven’t ever come back. Before that, I had an arsenal ready to bring out at the slightest push (yours) of any of a number of buttons (mine). My frequent internal arguments with you in anticipation of your disapproval of something I hadn’t told you yet disappeared. I’m sorry I didn’t develop the confidence to deal with you on an adult level when you were here. But I am confident you knew I loved you.

I have my hair highlighted with some pretty light streaks—almost blond in a few places. You nagged me to do this for years, but I always told you I hated that very-light-on-dark look. I am eating those words, and they don't taste so bad. I get compliments on my hair color, so I hereby state, much too late: You were right, Mom. About a lot of things.

My baggage has baggage. Or is it me?

2010-04-08T17:34:00.000-05:00

I’m a pack rat. But not the hoarding kind that seem to be—inexplicably—popular on reality TV now. My inability to stop adding things to my stash takes over only when I go on a trip. I’m not a novice traveler. Through my job (earlier, when I was full-time), I’ve gone to conferences in Europe, Asia, and South America—even as far as Perth, Australia. I’m sure most people think I have the packing thing all wrapped up, so to speak.

I still struggle with it every time I travel anywhere.

Several days ahead, I start loading my carry-on bag, and here’s where I get a little obsessive. It’s important to note that I don’t like to fly. Therefore, I seek comfort by packing my just-in-case items (small plastic bags just in case I want to save my airline-issued pretzels, extra underwear and maybe a sweater just in case the airline loses my luggage, two books just in case take-off is delayed and I finish the first one, an extra pair of prescription glasses just in case my good ones break. I could go on but I’d embarrass myself.

There are two periods before leaving that are very stressful. One is when I’m trying to fill my travel toiletries kit with everything I’ll need. I have to make sure I pack my good eyelash curler just after using it that morning lest I foget and have to rely on the not-very-good one that’s always in my kit and risk pinching my eyelids. One might ask: Why do you keep the nasty one in the kit? The answer is that, if I forget to pack the good one, even a pinching eyelash curler is better than none. I also fill up my regulation quart bag with little bottles and tubes—not to exceed 3 ounces each—of stuff I would want with me if my luggage got lost. I have to make sure I have the right small containers for every shampoo, conditioner, foundation, serum, and, of course, Retin A cream just prescribed by my dermatologist.

The second stressful period is just before actually putting stuff into the suitcase: making that final decision about what clothing goes and what stays. I try to coordinate my wardrobe, but I always have one or two tops or bottoms I’m dying to take but that don’t go with more but one bottom or top, and that’s not practical. And I’m constantly checking the weather report for my destination city to make sure I’m packing the right jacket and shoes.
Did I mention the plastic cleaner bags I put all my clothing in? Or the extra hangers (besides the ones holding the clothing) I bring just in case the hotel room doesn’t have enough?

But no matter where I go and how much time I've spent in preparation, I'll always think of something I wish I had packed but didn’t and/or something I did take that has no hope of being worn during the trip.

It doesn’t get easier, possibly because, with age, I get more complex—in a neurotic sort of way.

Multi-task? I can’t even multi-think anymore.

2010-03-29T10:45:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, I could multi-task. Honest. Or at least I could do two things at once. These days I find that if I don’t pay close attention while pouring water into the coffeepot, it’s likely to dribble down the side. Then I’m not sure how much water is actually in the pot, and the number of scoops of coffee I’ll need to put in is all out of whack. And all I was doing was thinking about whether to have Cheerios or—my favorite—Honey Bunches of Oats for breakfast.

Sometimes I’ll try to be efficient by carrying several items from the kitchen table at once. For example, I’ll have, in one hand, a crumpled, used napkin and a bottle of ranch dressing. In the other I clutch a crossword puzzle I want to continue working on upstairs. If I don’t concentrate, I know the bottle of dressing will end up in the trash, the crossword puzzle in the refrigerator, and the dirty napkin accompanying me to my bedroom. So I concentrate, and I usually get it right. But I swear I didn’t have to give this kind of mundane action that much thought when I was younger.

It’s also risky for me to have more than one thought in my head at once. But who can stop multiple thoughts from popping up any time and any place? We’ve lived so long and seen so much that our internal reactions to the slightest stimuli are instantaneous. But if one of my thoughts is an important one I want to be sure to remember, heaven help it. If I don’t write it down—and recall where I put the piece of paper—it’s gone. One exception is worry. I seem to be able to have multiple “what if” thoughts in my mind at the same time, each vying to see which can cause me the highest anxiety.

I’m heartened by research that says people never could really multi-task and complete every task well. Still, I’m sure I was better at this at an earlier age. Or is my aging memory rewriting history? If that’s possible, I’d like to order these new historic memories: I was very popular in high school, I was valedictorian of my undergraduate class, I excelled at sports, and…….and what? I swear I had a fourth thing in mind—an important one—a second ago, and now it’s gone. I rest my case.

Where the #@!%* am I? Ask my GPS.

2010-03-26T21:15:00.000-05:00

Like many others these days, I have a GPS. It’s helped me find some sites, but for the most part, it’s failed me miserably. Today I was headed from work to my dermatologist’s office, which is located in an area familiar to me. I know how to get to the street where her office is, but the last time I was there was a year ago, and I’m not sure which of the look-alike buildings she’s in. So I decided to set up the GPS so that, when I get near the office, it would tell me where to turn in. I typed in the address and pressed “Go.”

Right off the bat I was in trouble with The Voice—that “lady” who tells you when and where to turn. She didn’t like the way I was heading. My route is the one I take home each working day, and it’s the most convenient, least stressful way to go. But The Voice kept trying to steer me down other streets. I must have heard “Recalculating” six or seven times.

At one point, I was told to turn left on Milwaukee Avenue. “Milwaukee?” I told The Voice. “There’s construction that makes that road a nightmare. Why would I take Milwaukee?” She said nothing, but spat out “Recalculating” after I refused to follow her directions.

Confidently continuing to the street I knew was the correct one, I heard The Voice tell me to turn right at the next intersection. Right? I was going someplace north of the road I was on. Turning right would take me south and nowhere near where I needed to be. Even circling back would be difficult because a lot of those side streets are dead ends. After I heard the testy “Recalculating” again for not turning right, she tried to make me turn right at the next intersection too.

I realized then that the problem might be outdated navigation maps—even though we bought the GPS in the past year. The area I was going to was developed within this decade, and the doctor’s office was in a fairly new building on a fairly new street. So where was my Garmin taking me? I turned it off, followed the street signs, and found the building with no problem.

My biggest gripe about any GPS is that it can’t adjust to my favorite routes. I can save a route that it gave me, but it will be saved as the system originally configured it, using the same streets I want to avoid. If there’s a system out there that can ask us how we want to go (like Google Maps, which lets you click on the route with your cursor and drag it to the streets you prefer), I don’t know who sells it. Instead, I’ll just keep the old-fashioned folding road maps handy, along with a printout from Google Maps. Or maybe I’ll win the lottery and hire a driver. That’s about as likely as hearing The Voice apologize for causing me emotional distress.

Beware the Evil Eye (pooh pooh)

2010-03-22T16:37:00.000-05:00

Here’s something new I’ve discovered about my sixty-something self: I’ve become superstitious. I don’t mean that I refuse to leave the house on the 13th—especially when it falls on a Friday—or that I avoid walking under ladders (although this doesn’t come up very often). Most of my superstition revolves around illness, even death, or its possibility.

For example, like everyone else in America, we received our Census 2010 form in mid-March. The note that came with it says in ultra-bold letters: “Please complete and mail back the enclosed census form today.” Then, the first question asks how many people are living in my home as of April 1, 2010. It’s only March now. What if I say “2” and then, God forbid, something happens to one of us before April 1? If I mailed in the form before the deciding date, am I jinxing my life or my husband’s? Silly, I know. Yet…

I also tend to knock on wood a lot, and not just when something is spoken, like “I haven’t had a cold in six months!” I also do it, or at least want to, when I think something like that. Intellectually, I don’t really believe that tapping on the dresser is going to prevent me or my loved ones from getting sick, but somehow it makes me feel in control. This leads me to think I may have a touch of OCD, which, if I let it, will set me off on a whole new path of worry.

Where did I get this behavior? I think back to when my first daughter was born in the mid-60s. My mother was peering into her crib, remarking over how beautiful she was, alternating with utterances of “pooh pooh”—but thankfully not spitting—which is supposed to ward off the Evil Eye that retaliates at such declarations of beauty, health, and well-being. She also tied a red ribbon around one slat of the crib to reinforce the pooh poohs.

But in those days, and decades after, I wasn’t nearly as superstitious as she was. I was optimistic and, although realistic, did not think disaster was going to strike at any time. To be fair to my mother, she lost her mother tragically when my grandmother was fatally struck by a car. My mother was 14 and the youngest of six children. So I always understood why she was determined to do everything to ward off that Evil Eye. I was just as determined to not be that way.

And here I am now, fraught with my own brand of superstition, just short of pooh poohing. I still haven’t mailed the Census 2010 form, but I did fill it out with a bold declaration of two [healthy] people living in our household. Pooh pooh.

Where's the restroom?

2010-03-20T09:11:00.002-05:00

Next month we’re heading west to visit my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. We love spending time with them, so I’m looking forward to it, despite my usual anxiety over air travel and being so far from home. We’re staying at their place, and I’m grateful for their hospitality. Also, staying with relatives (when you genuinely like them) can be a way to get to know them better than just passing a few hours together at an event or dinner.

But just the other day, I started to wonder about our accommodations and if we’d have use of a private bathroom, close to our bedroom. This sounds like the whine of a high-maintenance (which I am) prima donna (which I don’t’ think I am), but this is the fact of our lives: We “older folks” spend a lot of time in the bathroom—with one or more nocturnal visits each. In my case, I spend a little too much time there in the daytime too, not the least of which is devoted to primping. I guess I could cut back on the primping for five days, but I’m not so sure about the other visits.

I remember a time, years ago, when I could adapt to almost any temporary living conditions. (This excludes outhouses and sleeping in the woods with bugs and critters.) I wasn’t adventurous, but I didn’t worry so much about the proximity of a bathroom. So it must be true that, as we age, we get set in our ways and less tolerant of being out of our natural habitat. I hate that. It reminds me of all the times I tsk-tsked over my elders’ stubbornness about such matters.

Update: In an e-mail yesterday, my sister-in-law assured me that we’ll have our own private bedroom and bathroom. I feel better now.

Wii shall overcome…laziness

2010-03-13T10:18:00.001-06:00

I’ll do anything to avoid actually working out. We are now the proud owners of a Wii system. The first night of ownership, we bowled (I was lousy at it, but at least I stayed out of the gutter), played a set of tennis (also lousy, but my husband wasn’t much better), and sampled baseball (I have an eye-hand coordination problem). But it was fun. We’ve yet to try boxing and golf, but they’re on the agenda for the next time we Wii. I’m not keen on boxing—or golf. I’m setting that up right now as an excuse if I embarrass myself when we do this.

I sampled this system at a friend’s house last summer and loved it. It seemed like an indulgence in a weak economy, but lately I’ve been avoiding the gym since I broke my little toe, so I rationalized it as a good way to get some exercise in. Next purchase? The Wii Fit system for more targeted exercise.

Now we just have to reprogram our lives to fit some serious Wii-ing in each day instead of collapsing in front of “Dateline” (mostly me) or “NCIS” reruns (always him).

Beauty in a jar—but which jar?

2010-03-06T16:25:00.000-06:00

A part of me is excited to be aging at a time when the market is filled with affordable anti-aging products. But it’s so confusing! Between TV ads for the lotions and creams, and articles in More and O touting over-the-counter products that are (supposedly) dermatologist-endorsed, my head spins.

I’ve been reading a lot about peptides and hyaluronic acid that are supposed to work wonders on age spots, undereye bags, lines, and all the other uglies that settle in. With this in mind, I look for products that contain these ingredients. The problem is, it takes a long time to browse the skin care shelves at Walgreen’s or Ulta—especially because the ingredients, if not blazing across the front of the package, are in tiny print (in other word, not for older folks) on the back.

But here’s the dilemma: What if I spend weeks—months!—using a product and it’s not the one that will work best on my wrinkles? I’ve actually lost time, and time’s running out. But it’s also not helping that I keep switching. I’ll use one lotion or cream for a week or two, and then, prompted by an ad or convincing commercial, I’ll buy another and use that for a while. For night creams, I rotate using a product with Retinol and one much milder. And if I get a sample as a bonus gift? I switch to that until it runs out.

This fickleness came back to bite me. I developed flaky patches on my cheeks that sting when I use any of the anti-aging products. It wasn’t during the coldest days of winter, and I hadn’t buried my face in a fuzzy wool scarf recently. I didn’t change laundry detergents, so my pillowcase wasn’t at fault. So I’m thinking it must have been a cosmetic product. But which one? I had no clue. Now I’m putting nothing but Eucerin on my face until the dry patches go away (and losing time that I could be seriously battling wrinkles and brown spots).

In my forties, I relied on Noxzema day and night. Ah, the good old days. Life was less complicated. And I was younger.

All is not lost…just avoiding me

2010-02-26T17:40:00.001-06:00

My birthday present this year was a petite subcompact digital camera. I always wanted a camera I could easily drop into my purse and have it handy whenever a photographic moment arises. (My definition of a photographic moment has now changed so much that I find very few these days. Nevertheless, I wanted that camera.)

It’s tiny, shiny, and teal blue. I bought a tiny case to put it in, and I tucked it into one of the compartments of my purse. But this camera is so small I’m afraid I might lose it in there.

I lose things in my purse all the time. It’s usually an item I know is in there. I’m reasonably sure I didn’t take whatever it is out of the purse, and I don’t think it fell out when the purse tipped over—most likely to happen when it’s sitting on my car’s passenger seat and the guy in front of me stops suddenly, and…well, I’m sure I’ve painted the picture.

To meet my approval, purses have to have several zipper compartments, preferably on the outside too, where I like to store my keys so I can get at them quickly. That way, I always know where my keys are. Except when I absentmindedly put the car key in the wrong outside zipper compartment and then panic for a minute when I think I dropped it somewhere.

But how is it possible that in a medium-size purse (by today’s standards), I can lose a pair of bifocals in a hardshell case? Or an 8-ounce bottle of water? Or my red patent leather wallet? When I thrust my hand into my purse, whatever I’m looking for flees from my fingers and hides in a dark corner of the bag—even if I just put the damn thing back a few minutes ago!

My husband is amused while I go through the frenetic ritual of locating something—like my glasses so I can drive the car. But I get to give it back. Because men don’t (usually) carry purses, all of their daily needs end up in their pockets—front pockets, back pockets, shirt pockets, and hidden inside-the-jacket pockets. Do you really think they know in which pocket they put which items? Please… I’ve seen that self-patting down men go through just to locate a pen or loose change. And as in my spouse’s case, they sometimes discover that the item really is missing, only to find it (at their better half’s suggestion) between the pillows of the sofa or in a pair of pants they just changed out of.

Should I take my tendency to lose something that’s not really lost as a sign of advancing age? Nah. I just need a bigger purse.

This little piggy’s crying “Waa, waa, waa!”

2010-02-15T10:19:00.000-06:00

A week and a half ago, I broke my little toe by, of all boring things, turning quickly and stubbing it on the floorboard in my bathroom. This is the first bone I’ve broken in my sixty-something years of existence (knock on wood, pooh-pooh, and all that).

I’m sure younger people stub toes and break them, but I can’t seem to separate this outcome of a stubbed toe from my slow advance toward osteoporosis…and old age. I suppose I can look on the bright side and be glad I didn’t do this in summer, when the temptation to wear sandals (against doctor’s orders) would be great. Still, I have to wear sensible shoes, and any pointy toes or high heels are out of the question. (Those who know me—and my feet—are now gathering to announce, in unison, “You NEVER wear pointy toes or high heels!”) This sensible shoe edict goes against my current campaign against frumpiness.

I’m sure I’ll survive this temporary affliction. But the jury is still out for my prescribed anti-bone-weakening regimen: large doses of Vitamin D, daily calcium, and lots of exercise. (Note to doctor: I can’t really exercise until my little toe heals.)

Eek! The younger generation is aging.

2010-02-08T19:13:00.002-06:00

You know you’re getting old when your hair stylist, who’s the same age as your daughter, tells you she can’t read fine print anymore. And that reminds you: Your daughter told you several weeks ago that she was forced to buy a pair of drugstore reading glasses. You’ve repressed it, until now.

Does it sometimes seem worse to admit your kids’ advanced ages than your own? I recall my mother, on one of my big birthdays, exclaiming “I can’t believe I have a daughter who’s 50!” I laughed then, but I won’t be laughing a few years from now.

Where did all that time go? We may feel older, but not that many years older. We’re looking out of the same eye sockets we looked through at 15, 25, 35, and hearing with the same ears. At this point, I have to quibble with my own statement. The eyes certainly aren’t what they used to be—for us or our adult kids—and the ears? Well, some of us turn up the TV volume now, and many, like me, hear a constant swishing sound. But still, it seems that decades have sped up and flown by, and we have a hard time believing that we’re those people we thought were really old back then.

This was the gist of conversations with my high school classmates at our “almost 50” reunion this past summer. (It was an “almost 50” because we went to school when Chicago had two enrollment periods: September and February. Our class graduated in January, but the organizers of our reunion wisely determined that few, if any, grads would travel to Chicago in winter—especially those who moved to warm climates just to get away from our cold, snowy season.)

When we got together that July evening, we were 18 again, remembering scene-by-scene the events that motivated our best gossip in our freshmen to senior years. As a contrast, we also bragged about our darling grandchildren—some of them now teenagers themselves. So I’m wondering why it’s easy to acknowledge that you’ve been out of high school nearly 50 years and you have grandchildren but hard to think about having middle-aged children.

So now that our children are aging, will they be a little more empathetic about the things we complain about? Will they understand a little more why we say and do the things we do? Yeah, right.

Be careful what you laugh at

2010-01-31T13:11:00.001-06:00

For one recent birthday, a long-time friend gave me a card that read “Ten Things We’re Still Too Young For.” Then it went on to list, from 10 down to 1, a la David Letterman, actions and attributes that immediately bring to mind little old ladies. My friend’s comment inside the card was “Uh-oh—I’m close to thinking some of these aren’t bad ideas!!” As I started reading through the list, I laughed as I recognized what applied to my mother and other older relatives but was pleased to see they didn’t apply to me. Then I read further, and my smile faded:

10. I don’t wear a plastic rain scarf. Do they even sell them anymore? I vowed years ago, watching my mother encase her teased hairdo in the ugly bonnet, that I would never wear one. So far, so good.

9. I don’t—and would never—have a tissue box cover made of yarn. Never.

8. My shower floor does not sport rubber daisies. I have a modern shower with the standard non-slip base (we were too over-upgraded to have the shower floor tiled), so that’s a non-issue.

7. I do not go to the “beauty shop” to have a once-a-week hairdo teased and sprayed. That practice will probably die out with the older generation. (However, sometimes I forget and call my salon the beauty shop.)

6. Do I have a drawer of newspaper clippings? Hmmmmm. Maybe not a drawer. Does a manila envelope count?

5. I was too quick to say no to having a huge vinyl purse with a padded strap, but the stores are now filled with fake leather purses, large ones, which may or may not have a “comfort strap.”I think I have one of those…

4. A seven-day pill organizer? Here, I get a little uncomfortable. Who at our age doesn’t have one? At least in my experience. Does it count if it contains only vitamin D pills and baby aspirin?

3. Do I have a tissue in every pocket and sleeve? Well, not in public. But with the perpetually runny nose that I was born with, I’ll admit to walking around with wadded tissues in the pockets of my bathrobes. When I have no pockets, I tuck them into my sleeve (eek!) or even my pants waistband. I surprise myself by my willingness to admit this. But I repeat: I don’t do this in public.

2. Do I have a shaky lip outline? Let’s leave this as “It’s getting there.” In my first post here (last September), I complained about how my lips are getting less defined. So I’ll have to add this one to my Yes list.

1. I expected more of this one—like David Letterman’s big finishes—but it’s just about finding a second use for bread bags. I can honestly say I never do this. But we do recycle most other relatively clean bags. And I confess that I use the cylindrical bags the Chicago Tribune comes wrapped in as shoe holders when packing for a trip. But I think I can safely disassociate myself from this one.

So how did I do? There were a few Yes answers and a couple of Maybes. I would like to conclude that I’m age-appropriate, not yet over that hill. And modern technologies will keep me from adopting the other outmoded “elderly” habits. But I’m afraid this list would look very different (and so our answers) if we asked our adult children to create it. I’m just not going to ask.

The plot thickens…as my memory thins

2010-01-26T21:11:00.007-06:00

Searching high and low, I found another reason to appreciate getting older. Now I can watch old episodes of Law and Order—the original, not the spinoffs—and enjoy them as if I’ve (almost) never seen them before.

Even the dramatic opening crime scene doesn’t always trigger recognition. But soon some memorable character will nudge my brain, and I realize I’ve sat through the episode before, sometimes twice. But the beauty of it is that I can’t remember how it turns out—who’s guilty, who was double-crossed, who’s lying, and why. An episode can be one I’ve seen three times, and I’ll remember it has a beauty of a plot twist. I just can’t recall what it is.

Okay, this may sound more like something to fear and complain about and not to celebrate. I’m trying very hard to stay positive. And positive means that I see it as a good thing: I can get double (or lots more) enjoyment out of a single show. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

But there’s something I’m wondering about. How come I can remember the beginning, middle, and ending of every episode of Sex in the City?

Give me dignity or give me health

2010-01-20T18:01:00.001-06:00

Last Monday (one of my non-work days), I was bored, but also feeling guilty (there’s that word again) about feeling bored. With all that’s going on in Haiti now, I should be grateful to have what I have, temporarily boring or not. I am grateful, and I am contributing to a fund to help the relief effort. So, with that disclaimer, I can go back to petty unpleasant observations in the hope that whining will lift my spirits.

For example…

Growing older can be so undignified. Besides the unintended musical interludes mentioned in an earlier post, I'm faced with an increasing number of medical tests as I age, and they sure can make me feel undignified. I have an upcoming appointment with an MD who’s an expert on osteoporosis. My most recent bone scan showed that my right hip is on the verge, if not already there, of this affliction, and I’m debating going back on a medication that has been controversial in the last couple of years. But before the appointment, I need to collect a 24-hour urine sample. It involves a big (very big) orange jug and a refrigerator. At least someone had the good sense to make the jug opaque. I know this could be a whole lot worse, so I’m approaching it with a sense of humor—and an inexplicable desire to share this with anyone who reads this blog...

And then there are colonoscopies. But my next one is (I hope) a few years off, and I’ll refrain from describing what most of you sixty-somethings are too familiar with anyway. Unpleasant? Yes, pretty much. Undignified? I would say so.

As we get older, it’s not surprising that we more often have to don a backless hospital gown (in those hideous colors and patterns) and let a technician attach electrodes or insert probes in embarrassing places. But just think about our grandparents, maybe even our parents, who didn’t have to go through some of these indignities because these advanced, sophisticated tests weren’t available yet. And many went on to pay the price—not living long enough to take advantage of medical miracles.

I feel better now. I can go back to worrying about Haiti, letting the mental picture of my undignified orange jug take your mind off the tragedy. You’re welcome.

A hair too fussy

2010-01-13T19:04:00.001-06:00

I may be in the last third of my life, but I can't believe I'm still going through the straight-hair vs. curly hair internal debate. A few years ago, I gave up blow drying my wavy, sort-of-curly hair straight and embraced (also sort of) my natural curls. I say "natural" with an asterisk: *Making it look acceptable involved these steps: 1) rub some kind of gook for curly hair into it, 2) scrunch for about a half-hour (while eating breakfast), 3) go over the scrunched curls with the diffuser dryer, and 4) heat up the curling iron to better define those stubborn few strands.

This may sound exhausting, but it really isn't so bad, and I got used to it. Still, I envied women with straight, shiny, silky—and youthful—tresses. I pined over every shampoo and conditioner ad that featured a swirl of glossy hair. Every once in a while I thought about blow drying it straight, just for a day or so, but I'd get lazy and do the usual. But just last week the temperature and humidity plummeted, a snowstorm kept me at home, and I was bored. I fished out my old straight hair tools and tried to turn a layered bob into a sleek hairdo. And it worked! Never mind that I couldn't see out of my right eye because of the silky hunk of hair hanging in front of it. I felt sexy!

To give this look equal time, I'll describe my multi-step method: 1) blow-dry my hair with what some might consider an antique: an oblong dryer that has an attachable comb or brush; 2) place large Velcro rollers throughout for volume, and spritz each with hair spray (then eat breakfast); 3) remove the rollers and gently comb out the hair. Except for the more arduous arm lifting, both methods are about the same amount of trouble. And people liked the "new" look. (The photo here is an example, but it's not a current one.)

I'm sure I'll go back to curls in a few days. The issue is that I'm still not sure how I want to look and what style is best for me. I still have straight hair envy but feel silly about not embracing the curls that often bring compliments. Isn't this the decade of acceptance? If not, there's always the next one. Bring on the 70s! (But not too quickly.)

60s music—it’s not always the Beatles

2010-01-04T12:14:00.003-06:00

As much as I hate to admit it, I have become a noisemaker as I’ve aged. Maybe other sixty-somethings do this too, but either I’m too absorbed in my own music to notice, I’m too polite to pay attention, or I’m simultaneously getting hard of hearing.

Here are some of the not-too-easy-on-the-ear sounds I produce:

Melodious, drawn-out yawning. I’m afraid I can’t find the right syllables to describe this in writing, but those who make yawning into a symphony of sounds know what I mean. My parents did this as they got older. Now it’s my turn.
Loud, resonant burps. (I am again being polite. Let’s call them what they really are: big belches.) I try to be discreet about this in public, but it’s obvious that I don’t consider my husband public. He can return the favor, and together we could put on a musical. It could be traced to the fact that we’re eating healthier—broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, beets, hummus… This could lead me to another noise caused by aforementioned foods, but I refuse to go there.
Creaking and popping joints. It’s hard to move these days without some clicking or popping noise coming from one of my limbs. I guess I have to be grateful at this point that I still have my own joints and haven’t had to have any replaced (knock on wood). I also recently discovered that when I turn my head from side to side, it sounds like my neck is filled with gravel. Heaven only knows what’s going on in there, and I’d rather not know.
Muttering to myself while trying to solve a crossword puzzle. With my husband nearby muttering, “That’s not right!” while he’s working on a Sudoku, I don’t feel so odd saying, “That doesn’t fit!” at the same time. This wouldn’t be as bad if I didn’t also make these sounds when I’m alone.
Uttering “uhmmmmm” (which comes out as a whiny humming sound) while typing this post. I just noticed myself doing this, and I know I do it often. Noises just escape from my throat involuntarily. This can be the vocal version of the sigh, but I might also label it a closed-mouth kvetch.

I could go on, but I’ve already provided enough fuel for others to avoid inviting me to parties. Please know that I am able to hold back the music while interacting with friends and colleagues. That is, for now. What will the next decade bring?

Not too old for paperless bills—with a little help from my brain

2010-01-02T17:32:00.001-06:00

When it comes to technology, I think I’m pretty savvy—or more so than many others in my demographic. I bank online and pay most bills that way. I prefer e-mail to telephone calls. At work, I write and post copy to the company’s web site, using HTML no less. I’m blogging…isn’t that proof of my comfort with 21st century communication?

As it turns out, I’m not as good online as I thought I was, at least when it comes to paying bills. Going paperless for our bills seemed to be the natural step after setting up online payments. So now I’m alerted to our monthly phone statement by an e-mail only. But I’m also inundated with advertising messages from the company, which I immediately delete. It’s not a stretch, then, to imagine me mistaking a bill notification for a pesky ad, and I must have done this twice. Recently, I got a text message on my cell phone from our provider: We were behind in our payments and our mobile phone service was being suspended until we paid up. This was upsetting because we have our home phone with the same mobile service, and we were suddenly without any phone connection. The message also said that, conveniently, I could press a couple of numbers and the pound key and an automated system would take my credit card payment over the phone. I did so, and our service was restored.

For my MasterCard bill, I have no problem recognizing the e-mail announcing that my statement is available online. It’s the payment schedule that confuses me. When we relied on paper, I would get the monthly statement, note the amount due, then write a check and mail it before the due date. Now, when I look online at my card’s activities, I note the amount due on the statement but also see the outstanding balance, which is larger because I’ve used the card after the close of the statement. This may sound like a no-brainer: Pay the statement amount each time, and everything works out, or pay the outstanding balance once a month, as long as the payment isn’t transmitted after the due date. (See, I’m already getting confused by my own ramblings here…)

After the phone incident, I was tempted to go backwards and request paper bills again. But then I'd be living up to the nasty stereotype of older folks who complain about change and refuse to embrace technology, won’t I? No, I will not be those people. I’ll just have to be more vigilant and proactive about monthly bills. (I think a fancy smart phone with a musical reminder app would help…)

I admit the problem is mine and not the fault of the paperless systems. To be honest, I once missed a department store card payment because the paper bill, which I probably saw when it arrived, became buried under a bunch of junk mail, and I forgot about it.

Since it’s only the second day of a new year, I resolve to be more organized in 2010. And this year I really mean it!

SAD accomplishment, in baby steps

2009-12-26T14:06:00.003-06:00

It’s time for another update on my experience with the SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) light therapy, and if I think it’s helping me stay positive this winter. To sum it up: I’m not quite sure.

I sit with the lamp at least one half-hour each morning. (“Morning” can range from 7:00 on work days to 9:30 on Sundays and other lazy days.) I don’t feel any more joyful while I’m using the lamp—although I’m happy that I can read the small numbers in the crossword puzzle clues a whole lot better.

There’s no dramatic uplift to my mood, and I don’t go around smiling more often (at least I don’t think so; I’m certainly not smiling every time I look in the mirror—especially the magnified mirror). But I noticed one important change. In the days leading up to December 21, I heard myself say, with a cheery tone: “After December 21, the days start getting longer!” This is one the most positive statements I’ve made in the early part of this season.

I have also found myself thinking that, since all time seems to have sped up since I turned 60, winter will pass quickly too. So even though the snow keeps piling up today, with cold temperatures and windy conditions predicted, in a wink, it’ll be spring! There’s a down side to that kind of thinking: In less than a wink, I’ll celebrate another birthday and be a year closer to old age. The old BSADL me (before SAD lamp), would have been taken down in the dumps by that thought. Now, I’m focusing on the coming end of winter and not the coming…well…end.

As I write this, I’m leaning toward cautiously stating that the lamp therapy may be working after all. I still fear driving in snow, I dislike being cold, I’m miserable when my eyes and nose run at the same time, and I’m afraid I’ll fall and break a bone on the ice. Otherwise, I’m pretty upbeat.

The good knife—and other unquestioned "truths"

2009-12-24T16:54:00.007-06:00

In earlier posts, I’ve mentioned how I had scorned some of my mother’s opinions, only to find myself thinking her way decades later. Here's another example.

Whenever I’m hand-washing my kitchen knives, I reminisce about conversations with my mother in the late 90s, when she was selecting a set of knives for us for our anniversary. She named two common brands she considered inferior—her disdain was so strong, she might as well have uttered “ptooey!” after each one. Then she announced, “Wusthof!” And that’s what we received—and appreciated.

This morning, as I wiped the sponge over my Wusthof paring knife, I found myself thinking, decisively, “These really are the best knives…” But would I have thought this way with no earlier maternal prompting? Maybe not. Or maybe so. They are fine knives.

Now I’m wondering what other, more significant biases—good and not so good—I hold without question, ones that didn’t come from my own research. There are probably hundreds (thousands?). I promise to notice them for what they are as they come up. But will I be able to see them objectively and then form my own opinions?

I was past 60 when my mother passed away, so I lived through many years of her strong opinions. (More often than not, these opinions were informed and good ones; this was hard for me to admit.) It’s challenging to re-examine such long-held beliefs and come to different conclusions—without feeling a little guilty. But I’m going to give it a shot.

A personal guilty verdict. 50s-era byproduct?

2009-12-22T16:56:00.002-06:00

I’ve been at home with a cold today—a very timely cold since it’s also snowing with a promise of one to three more inches later. I have my laptop at home, and I have wireless Internet access and a way to get into the company network (when it’s cooperating), so I decided to work from here.

But why is it that I felt guilty that I wasn’t in the office? It’s the three-day week of Christmas (our offices will be closed on Christmas Eve too), so hardly anyone was around, including my boss, who’s on vacation. And I was working! But I feel that I’m somehow letting everyone down if I’m not sitting behind my desk doing the same thing.

I’ve concluded that this may be a generational quirk. Do those in the younger generation and the younger than younger generation feel the same way when they’re out sick or otherwise not in the office? I doubt it, but I have not asked around or studied the topic. I think our generation still reveres and sometimes fears authority figures, be they bosses, teachers, or group leaders.

Leaders (and doctors) are now almost always younger than us now—even the President has been younger than me, since Bill Clinton. Still, relative age doesn’t seem to matter when it comes to wanting to please those in command and have them look favorably on me. Otherwise, why would I quickly put a serious look on my face when the boss comes by and I’ve been gossiping with my colleagues? There’s always that “Jiggers! He’s here” dialogue in my head on those occasions.

I work hard, get my projects done, and meet deadlines, so I’m entitled to a little coffee klatch at times. But I can’t seem to slough off that pang of conscience. Is this pretty common among those in our sixties? If so, it may be attributed to the 1950s mentality. This was the era of my coming of age, and attitudes about life—and what you could or could not (not ever!) do—were formed and cast in concrete then.

I haven’t discounted the fact that this may be my own personal quirk. But I’m still wondering if it’s also the attitude of others, of many ages. Remind me to bring this up next time I’m standing in the hallway talking with a group of my coworkers (that is, until you-know-who walks by).

How now, slim brow

2009-12-16T20:45:00.001-06:00

Peering into my lighted magnifying mirror (with which I have a love-hate relationship), I noticed—not for the first time—that my eyebrows are getting skimpier. There are also a few white hairs among the brown, which, because they’re nearly invisible, only intensify the look of a fading brow.

This requires more skillful application of taupe pencil or brown powder or whatever product the make-up gurus are touting these days—not to mention the clear brow gel that we curly-headed lasses need to keep us from looking like late-middle-aged werewolves.

But here’s a sixty-something’s irony: The eyebrow concern I’m focusing on today is the exact opposite of my childhood issue. You see, I was one of those tweens with a unibrow. The hair wasn’t bushy in between my eyes, but it was certainly present and noticeable. This was before I was allowed to tweeze, and I wasn’t all that bothered by it.

Once, at camp, we were sitting around a campfire, laughing and having a great time. A girl I was particularly fond of was next to me, and we were teasing each other good-naturedly. (I haven’t seen her since and I couldn’t remember her name if my life depended on it.) Then she stopped and looked closely at my face. She put her index finger up to my brow and drew a line from right to left. “You have eyebrows all across your head,” she said, not unkindly. And in spite of my usually poor self-image, I took it for the friendly statement of fact that it was meant to be. But I couldn’t get to the age of tweezing fast enough.

Eventually, I learned to tweeze my eyebrows. (An early harrowing scene in which my mother tried to tweeze my older cousin’s eyebrows while said cousin screamed in pain—a bit too dramatically, I realized later—made me vow never to let anyone else pluck mine.) I have enjoyed adequate eyebrows ever since…until now.

When I mention this to my contemporaries, they commiserate but are quick to point out that, on the plus side, they hardly ever have to shave their legs or underarms anymore. Such is not the case with me. It’s so unfair.

Don’t believe a thing I say…

2009-12-14T17:30:00.004-06:00

…and don’t take that title literally either. I caution you though to listen with a grain of salt when I tell a tale from my long-ago past. While I, like many of my peers, can’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday or what movie I saw on TV a week ago, we’ve always seemed to be able to describe vividly things that happened to us 30, 40, and 50 years ago. Even events in childhood can leave a lifelong impression if they made us happy or were particularly upsetting.

But now, when I dredge out an old—very old—story or statement of fact (I thought) and it’s pointed out to me that I have the details wrong, I start doubting all of my memories.

A couple of weeks ago I had lunch with a high school friend. When our conversation got to our guilt over not getting the proper doses of physical activity, I recalled how my grammar school gym teacher called me and others who couldn’t do our chin-ups “motor morons.” I started to relate how that label affected me ever since, when my friend interrupted.

“That was our high school gym teacher, Mrs. [whatever her name was]. And I was a ‘motor moron’ too!” This friend had not gone to grammar school with me, and if she remembers being so labeled in high school, she must be right about when it occurred. I had been occasionally telling this story in recent years, and all this time I was blaming the wrong teacher. Although I’m over the motor moron accusation, now I’m worrying over what other memories my mind has screwed up.

Even more disconcerting are the times I start relating an incident of the past only to realize I can’t remember how it turned out, or in what order events occurred. When my best friend and I wrote a silly love letter using a fake name to Ricky Nelson, we taped two aspirins to the top of page two because, we wrote, “you may get a headache after reading this.” But did we actually mail it? (I used to know that, I swear.)

Sometimes I’ll get hung up long before the end of the story. I start to describe what I enjoyed most on Sesame Street while awaiting the birth of my first child, and then I remember reading recently that the wonderful PBS program debuted in 1969—when my daughters were 5 and 2. How can that be, when I’m picturing myself watching the show in our one-bedroom Skokie apartment, one hand on my mounded belly? If that memory is tangled up in my mind with another one, I suppose I’ll have to drop that bit of nostalgia from my repertoire.

So, with the exception of my December 13 post on my reaction to Hebrew at five, I advise you to raise an eyebrow when I begin to reminisce. Listener beware: I think someone reshuffled the cards in this sixty-something brain.

What makes a 5-year-old laugh—then and now?

2009-12-13T13:34:00.007-06:00

Last night, at our Chanukah celebration, I watched one of my 5-year-old grandsons giggle softly as his father chanted the Hebrew blessing after lighting the candles for day two of the holiday. Although he’s heard these words many times before, this time it made him snicker. I didn’t get a chance to ask him if it was the words or something else that seemed funny, but it reminded me of an occasion long ago.

I was also 5 years old, and I was attending my older cousin’s Bar Mitzvah party. He began reading his Torah portion aloud, in a sing-song voice, and it must have been my first taste of Hebrew because I thought it was the funniest string of “gibberish” I had ever heard. I began to giggle. The odd, alien syllables—some with a “ch” sound (not unlike throat-clearing)—were hilarious. My laughter must have been infectious because I heard my slightly older cousin next to me start to laugh too.

I have no recollection of my parents or other relatives shushing us, but someone probably did, with some serious scolding. After all, why would I remember this incident and not the dinner, dancing, gift-giving, and hugging of that night? But the important thing is that I did remember it. I also teased my cousin, now in his mid-70s, about it recently. I’m sure he was amused to find out that all I can recall about the momentous occasion of his “becoming a man” was that he spoke in (foreign) tongues.

Sexting: not recommended for the older crowd

2009-12-05T10:50:00.005-06:00

Despite my constant carping on the atrocities of aging, I continue to look for reasons to be grateful about being older. A recent newspaper article prompted this one.

The story cited these survey results: One-fourth of teens and one-third of young adults admitted to “sexting,” or sending nude photos or videos of themselves by cell phone.
Isn’t it wonderful that, at the age of sixty-something, we’re not remotely tempted to do this? Think about it—the horror, the horror.

And who would we send these unsightly images to? Certainly not our spouses. They get enough of the jiggles, lumps, and bumps morning and evening. And if we’re single, do we really think we can tempt a potential partner with an artfully posed veiny, splotchy corpus vile? (Don’t bother looking it up. It means “A person or thing fit only to be the object of an experiment.”) I didn’t mean this literally. I just wanted a fancy way to say “a body we wouldn’t want the world—and certainly not a would-be suitor—to be able to view, enlarge, and gasp at.”

I’ll continue to have my photo taken while wearing my most flattering outfit, which is not my birthday suit. What’s flattering is becoming more specific every year. I still expose my neck, but how long will it be before I start tying on a colorful scarf or bulky jewelry to conceal the cragginess and lines? And that reminds me of my late mother, who would put her hand in front of her neck when posing, much like an ingénue of early films. We teased her about it and she took it with good nature, but if she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck or neckscarf, that hand would be splayed below her chin in almost every photo. I try not to emulate my mother in actions that we laughed at, but even if I wanted to, I don’t think the back of my hand would be a suitable substitute for an old neck. But that’s another story.

Thanksgivings past and present: It’s all good.

2009-11-26T14:31:00.004-06:00

On this Thanksgiving Day, as I’m primping for our 4:00 p.m. reservations at an area restaurant—just the two of us—my mind wanders back many years. If this were the Thanksgiving version of a chapter of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Thanksgivings Past would be taking me soaring over these scenes:

It’s the early 1970s, and I’m alone in our modest Skokie bi-level home, trying not to think about the turkey dinner with more than enough trimmings that my mother has prepared for the family and that they are all feasting on now. I’m nursing the 24-hour stomach flu and am grateful that this year’s holiday takes place at my parents’ home, allowing me to send my family off to enjoy it and to wallow in my miserable symptoms by myself. (To this day, I associate late November with this gastrointestinal malady, so it must have happened more than once.)

Next, my ghost and I float over a scene in the late 1970s, and I’m basting the turkey one last time before taking a minute to answer the doorbell. It’s a cousin I’d lost touch with for years and whom I invited after one of us contacted the other. Like many Thanksgivings, I invited someone who was not usually on our guest list, someone who otherwise would have nowhere to be with family and friends on that day. It was fun to have this newcomer at our dinner table, and I suppose I felt noble extending our hospitality.

My ghost and I skip the 1980s and hover over a mid-1990s Thanksgiving dinner. I’m living with my second (and current) husband in a three-level townhome in Rogers Park, and we’re continuing my tradition of having an extra guest or two. This year, I’ve invited a woman from work and her college-age daughter whose family lives across the country. The conversation is lively and stimulating.

We swoop into the twenty-first century and see a scene in my in-laws’ home in Munster, Indiana. We’re dining with my mother-in-law who, like me, is not so fond of cooking, and the rest of the family who’ve come in from Wyoming. For past holiday dinners in Munster, my father-in-law, who learned to cook whle working at a dining hall in his college days, always prepared the feast. But this time, he’s in late stages of a terminal illness, so we ordered turkey and trimmings from Boston Market. My father-in-law is too weak to dine with us. He makes a brief appearance at the table and then retreats to his bed. That night, he falls out of bed several times, and although there are enough people there to help lift him back up that night, it’s determined by his sons that he should be moved to a hospice center because my mother-in-law cannot do this on her own. He's taken to the center that night. A few days later, after long visiits with family and his beloved poodle, he quietly passes away.

We’re looking over a scene a few years later in a cozy Munster restaurant, where my husband and I and my mother-in-law are remarking over how good the meal is and how many people are also dining with their small families in this neighborhood place. This is the first time I’ve had dinner out on Thanksgiving, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how satisfying it is. As always with my mother-in-law, the conversation sparkles with her youthful enthusiasm and love of topics like anthropology, modern music, and the latest movies. For a few minutes, I wallow in nostalgia and the fact that I’m not with my kids and twin grandsons. They traditionally attend a large family dinner on their father’s side. To keep that sadness in check, I think of all the holidays we do spend with all of them—including the other side—as well as the fact that we’re making my mother-in-law very happy.

Unfortunately, she passed away after a brief illness just before last Thanksgiving. So this year, it’s just the two of us, and we’re still thankful. We expect to have a great feast, charming ambiance, and good one-on-one conversation. Maybe we’ll start planning the holiday party we’re giving in December.

The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past is now satisfied that I’m feeling pretty good about this holiday and its predecessors—the good, the not-too-good, and the ugly (stomach flu)—and takes off. In all cases, whatever other emotions I felt, I’ve been thankful for the family and friends I’m lucky to have.

There's no need for a visit from the Ghost of Thanksgiving Present. We're good. (I cancelled the Ghost of Thanksgiving Future. I'd rather not know...)

Black is the color of my...closet

2009-11-21T20:58:00.003-06:00

Taking a quick scan of my closet, I see what others would conclude: My favorite color is black. I do own bright- and multi-colored tops, and in the summer, I sometimes wear white or tan capris (more on capris in another post). But black takes up the overwhelming majority of my half of the space. I’ve decided, therefore, that when I shop, I cannot even consider buying any more black—for a while.

I enter a store with good intentions. Now that it’s almost winter, the jewel tones I also like are plentiful. But I still find myself perusing the racks and pulling out black sweaters, shirts, pants, and skirts to take a closer look. Then I internally scold myself. The conversation in my head goes something like this:

Practical Me: You already have three black cardigans.

Blackaholic Me: But this one has ruffles on the cuffs. Ruffles are so in now.

PM: Who’s going to look that closely at the cuffs? You’ll just be wearing another black cardigan.

BM: But the texture of this one is so smooth. And it has long sleeves. Two of our older sweaters have three-quarter sleeves—too much exposure for winter.

This goes on for a second or two more, and then I hang the item back on the rack.

Today I went shopping, again, and wandered into—surprise!—Chico’s. Here’s a rhetorical question: Does a mostly black top that has red and white accents count against me? I thought it didn’t, and I could not resist buying it. It fits me well, I have many things to wear it with, and it was on sale. But it also looks vaguely like a number of other black-with-other-colors Chico’s tops I already have.

So it’s fair to say I haven’t been cured of my black clothing addiction. I know of one can't miss cure, but I’m not ready to go for it: I'll adopt a shaggy dog or long-haired cat. Then I’m sure I’ll never wear black again. Or navy. Or charcoal…

The language of age

2009-11-16T19:32:00.011-06:00

A friend at work recently loaned me a book she found amusing—How Not to Act Old by Pamela Redmond Satran. The cover alone made me laugh: a pair of granny panties swinging alongside a leopard-print thong on a clothesline. The book’s chapters cover the actions we older people take that give away our generation, sometimes before we open our mouths. According to Satran, if we leave a voice message for a younger person or even send an e-mail, we’re labeled as old. Instead we should text. I don’t text, and in the interest of full disclosure, I admit that we’ve blocked texting on our family cell plan so we don’t get hit with extra fees.

The book is funny, and some of the tips, I’m sure, will not be heeded by most people over 40. And many, I have to believe, are tongue-in-cheek. But it got me to thinking about my habits and how I’m noticing more of a divide between the young and myself. I specifically said “myself” because not all of my contemporaries are stubborn about giving up past practices.

My word choice is an excellent example. I still say medication instead of meds, pharmaceutical instead of pharma, applications instead of apps. It’s hard for me to cut doctors down to docs, although I used it in an earlier post. (It felt odd as I typed it then, but I was trying to be hip….do they still say that?) Some of the newer shortened words are, in my opinion, short enough in their original form. What’s the time saving there? And are we supposed to be too busy—or too lazy—to sound out two syllables? You are now getting the picture as to why I’m not texting. Can you imagine me typing "C U later" and not obsessing about the omitted letters—not to mention a misplaced “C”? I have tried Twitter though, and anyone who reads my writing can understand why I’d have difficulty saying anything in only 140 characters.

I'm told I look younger than I am, and most of the time my clothes are appropriately youthful. And I’d like to believe that I think young—when I’m not trying to come up with the ironies of aging for this space. So, the handwriting is on the wall (does anyone ever say that anymore?), and you’ll probably see me texting my grandchildren in the future—if texting isn’t considered old by the time they learn to type with their thumbs.

All we have to fear is fear ...

2009-11-10T20:33:00.003-06:00

A few years before I became a senior citizen (I detest that term), I thought about all the times I would read tips to prevent diseases that target the elderly (a term I detest even more). Each article made me feel more guilty because I wasn’t eating right, exercising enough—or at all—or sleeping the recommended seven or eight hours. “I’ll start soon,” I told myself. “I’ll make sure I change my habits when I get old enough to worry about them.”

And then more birthdays came and went. I knew I couldn’t postpone my lifestyle makeover any longer. Almost overnight, I made changes—motivated not by common sense, but by fear: Fear of a heart attack, stroke, sudden death, or—shudder—dementia. The fact that my bad cholesterol level and blood pressure began rising was a strong motivator too.

I cut back on saturated fats, even completely eliminated trans fats before the onslaught of products touting “No trans fats!” hit the shelves. I started reading the sodium content on nutrition labels and could no longer buy a can of soup with over 500 mg. I joined a gym and manage to go there twice a week. I added some whole grains to my meals and am slowly getting used to them. (Buckwheat pancakes are an exception.) Besides sticking my tongue out at The Grim Reaper, I lost 12 pounds and dropped a pants size!

Practically, I know that if I had started this regimen earlier, I would have gained that much more of an advantage over the evils of senior ailments. But I didn’t, and I can’t look back. No, the fear of getting something labeled “usually striking people over 65,” has not disappeared. It still pokes me occasionally, especially when I read an obituary for someone my age or hear about a friend of a friend who’s had a massive stroke. But now I can tell myself that I’m (usually) doing the best I can to prevent it. That’s a relief. Except when I have a strange shooting pain in the middle of the night…

The right to bear arms and legs, or not

2009-11-04T21:21:00.005-06:00

Coming of “age” in this decade of rapid cultural change can present a few problems. Just when we’re realizing the necessity of covering more of our flesh, the younger generation of women is exposing more of it.

When did women stop wearing pantyhose—even with formal dresses? What’s a sixty-something to do? Do we observe the new rule and skip the hose, thereby exposing our varicose and spider veins, those funny skin patches that our dermatologists assure us is normal for aging skin, and the black-and-blue marks that occur a little more often because we need to work on our balance? Or do we wear the pantyhose anyway, thereby looking like we failed to notice that it isn’t the twentieth century anymore?

And those sleeveless dresses this past summer—not to mention tank tops everywhere. Sixtyish arms have a whole different set of problems: upper flapping flab, brown spots (some of which glom together until they look like one shapeless bruise), and, if you’re fair and thin-skinned like me, big, blue, meandering veins.

But there’s also something I discovered late one evening, and quickly covered up. Wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt while reading in bed, I absentmindedly raised my arm to push my hair off my forehead. My eyes wandered from the page to my upright inner forearm, and I was horrified at what I saw: rows and rows of craggy folds of skin. Ugh. I quickly straightened my arm, and they were gone. But now I knew the truth: I would have to wear long-sleeves all year long.

But, pragmatic person that I am—much of the time—I admit that I have gone to casual parties in cap sleeves, attended a niece’s wedding wearing pantyhose (in my defense, it was kind of chilly on the walk from the church to the reception), and surely have broken many of my own rules for being age-appropriate. Like we probably told our kids when they were teens: Be aware of the trends, adopt some, scoff at others, and do what feels right. I’m trying.

I see a bright light ...

2009-11-01T17:50:00.006-06:00

It has now been a couple of weeks since I’ve had my SAD (seasonal affective disorder) lamp. I wish I could say definitively that it has improved my attitude toward the upcoming winter, but it’s too soon to tell. But since I’m writing this on the evening after we’ve changed the clocks back to standard time (in my opinion, the worst day of the year), I can report that I’m not in a terrible mood. It’s only 5:42 p.m. and pitch black outside, but I’m not feeling blue. In fact, I’m looking forward to watching “60 Minutes” and putting a Newman’s pepperoni pizza in the oven—to eat with a healthy green salad, of course.

I turn the bright light on every morning just before I eat my breakfast. I’ve had to change my seat at the table so that the lamp can be plugged in close to me, and to avoid having the cord stretch across my husband’s seat, potentially strangling him. (That would not be a good start at averting sadness.)

What I’ve loved about the lamp from the beginning is that the light it provides is so much better for my cataract-impaired good eye than the three cloudy pendants that hang over the table. After my half-hour dose, and I turn it off, I’m startled at how dark the table area is without it.

This is not yet a solid enough test of SAD therapy, so I promise to report on it again from time to time. The real test begins when I have to leave work in the dark on Tuesday afternoon. We’ll see if I’m still smiling then.

Never too late? Sez who?

2009-10-24T11:06:00.002-05:00

Women’s magazines are filled with articles whose theme is that it’s never too late—to develop a new hobby, become physically fit, revitalize our skin, take up a new religion, or make new friends. But there are some things to which I can rightfully say “Absolutely too late!”

Among items on my too-late list are going to graduate school, entering a marathon, and having a nose job. Now I know I could probably take a stab at going back to school, one course at a time, or practicing five days a week with a trainer. The truth is that I don’t want to. Not now, not for the foreseeable future, and probably not ever.

As for the nose job, I just don’t have the guts to go under any knife. But I really do believe that if I can’t accept my face at this age, there’s no hope for me. I do accept my face—most of the time. But recently, I saw a candid photo of myself in profile… Do noses really grow longer while the rest of us shrinks? But it’s too late, and if I’m being honest, I had no desire to go through that surgery 20 or 30 years ago either.

My husband recently finished a two-year stint with metal braces—rubber bands and all. Now that they’re off, he has a purple retainer to wear day and night. Although I didn’t think he needed to do this, I respect his desire to fix something that has, apparently, always bothered him. I give him credit for putting up with the sore gums, the inability to eat taffy apples, and the need to share the orthodontist’s waiting room with teenagers. He looks good, but most important, he feels good about his smile.

I couldn’t have put up with all that suffering for such an extended period. But those who know me probably remember that, several years ago, I had massive dental work, spanning a couple of years and including seven implants, a sinus lift, a bone graft, three root canals, and various other procedures, much of it under general anesthetic, and all of it followed by days of pain. I’m glad I did it, but when I think about going through that now, it seems impossible. What’s changed? Is this the same inflexibility I used to find objectionable in the older generation? If it’s my turn to take on that can’t and won’t attitude, I hope that somehow, somewhere, they forgive me for my scorn back then.

If a new hobby, friend, or low-impact fitness program comes along, I’ll go for it. Just don’t ask me to do anything painful, complicated, or risky. You’re too late.

The blue screen of death and the will to keep working

2009-10-20T21:17:00.003-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, an ominous blue screen popped up on my work laptop. I was too clueless to panic, so I calmly walked the machine down to our IT department and begged for assistance. (I was prepared to fight off the admonition, “You’re supposed to e-mail the Help Desk” with the logical “How can I e-mail you if my PC’s not working?”) But I was greeted only with “You have the blue screen of death!” I didn’t much care for that comment, and I finally did start to feel something resembling panic.

Fortunately, IT worked its magic, and I was back in business. But several days later, I was answering e-mails when all applications froze. And stayed frozen. I couldn’t restart and I couldn’t shut down. Again, I marched down to IT. This time I was told to leave the laptop there for testing and given a desktop loaner. The loaner was fine if I wanted to start new documents or play Solitaire. But all my work was on my laptop!

A day later, still toiling on the loaner, I got a phone call from the IT tech. Her message was short and not so sweet: “Can you come down here?” I suddenly felt like I had taken a battery of medical tests and the doctor’s office called to say “The doctor would like to talk with you…privately… in her office.” You know it’s bad news.

The diagnosis? My laptop had a virus and malware that had irreparably messed it up. The action plan? IT would reinstall my entire system. Thankfully, our servers back up everything all the time, so my documents would be restored, and the standard Microsoft products would be there too. But I would have to reinstall all of my software that wasn’t company standard, like four Adobe products—and their upgrades. And reinstall I did, which took me hours and was not without glitches.

I soon discovered what else this procedure had cost me. All of my preferences, my Outlook format selections, and my Favorites for web-surfing needed to be set up again. I spent most of the next two days resetting or frantically sending messages to the Help Desk to restore files that hadn’t transferred over.

After exasperating circumstances like these, I always ask myself if full retirement wouldn’t be a better option than my part-time compromise. But what would I whine and worry about during those extra days at home? My aching knees or inability to open a vitamin bottle? Or, even worse, a meltdown on my home computer and no IT help anywhere in sight? At only three days a week (and never on Monday), work is good.

I married a younger man—just not young enough

2009-10-18T17:14:00.010-05:00

My husband is younger, but just by a few years. That puts him in the same decade of life as I am. And it means that when we’re watching an old movie, and I ask, “Who’s that actress again?” he usually answers, “It’s What’s-Her-Name.” And there we sit, neither one of us able to conjure up even a first initial as a guide. If we’re lucky, he or I may shout it out a half-hour or so later. But most times, the mystery ends when he looks it up on his iTouch.

Then there are the crossword puzzles. I love doing them, and I’ve even been tackling the New York Times Sunday puzzles lately. But more often than I’d like to admit, a word sits on the tip of my frontal lobes but just won’t work its way down into my hand and out the ballpoint pen I'm clutching. After several tries, I’ll admit defeat and ask my spouse for help. Nine times out of ten, he's sure he knows it but just can’t get it out of the recesses of his brain either.

So it appears that his relative youth is of no use to me in these trivial pursuits. Or is it? Would I feel better if he glibly spouted the actress’s name or leaned over and wrote the elusive puzzle word in the squares? Absolutely not. If he did that, I would probably conclude that my lapses were a sign of encroaching memory loss—the A word. Instead, we can laugh together at the toll age takes on our storehouse of memories. Then I think to myself: If someone younger than I can’t answer these questions quickly either, I must be OK. And we’re in this together.

In an effort to look youthful

2009-10-12T17:08:00.008-05:00

I went clothes shopping today, despite having a closet and a half stuffed with sweaters, pants, skirts, and jackets. But I've recently realized that I don't like many of them, whether I bought them five years ago or this past summer. I'm taking a hard look at everything I put on these days in an effort not to look frumpy. (Or is the word I'm looking for "old"?) So as comfortable as my loose-fitting sweaters are, if they don't pass the "does this sweater make my torso look sixty-ish?" test, they need to be replaced.

One problem is that I often shop alone. I know I should sweet-talk one of my younger or hipper friends into coming along for encouragement and honest appraisal. But when I shop with friends, even the young and/or hip variety, I'm usually too intent on the gossip and the lovely girltalk to look for clothes. Or I gladly stand by while my companion tries on her selections, but I brush off any suggestion that I go and look for my own.

This afternoon, in my solo pursuit, I purchased two jackets from Chico's, my favorite retailer. I'm hoping that watching episode after episode of "What Not to Wear" has strengthened my ability to choose wisely. I guess I'll just have to wear them and wait for the compliments ... or the awkward silence.

Is there a doctor in the house? On TV?

2009-10-06T21:12:00.008-05:00

Something I've been wondering this evening: Does my age have anything to do with the fact that I sat in the family room this afternoon watching both Dr. Oz's new medical talk show and The Doctors on The U? Maybe not, as I can see audience members for both shows who are younger, if not young.

But here's another more telling clue: I sat there with pad and pen, ready to jot down any helpful hint the docs dropped that will help me with ringing in my ears, grumbling of my stomach after meals, cracking of my jaw when I yawn, and that other noisemaker, an aftereffect of eating too much broccoli.

And jot I did. Dr. Oz warned against indulging in caffeine and tonic water to avoid worsening that swishing sound in my ears, and I wrote it down. On the same topic (coincidence?), The Docs on The U pointed out a new therapy that can be performed by your friendly ear, nose, and throat doctor to help the noise, called tinnitus. So I now have two pages of scribbled health directives that I may or may not follow.

When did I start paying such close attention to medical shows—that is, real medical shows, not ER, St. Elsewhere, and Dr. Welby (to go back a ways). But then, when did I start reading Prevention every month? Was I always so eager to turn to the Health Beat section of the Trib? Certainly not in my fifties. What can I expect to focus on when my seventies roll around? I'm afraid to speculate.

Facing the season—or not

2009-10-03T10:31:00.008-05:00

I'm one of those lifelong Chicagoans who has never embraced Chicago winters. In fact, the disdain I have for the approaching season of snow, cold, ice, and slush gets worse every year. So I've decided to be proactive this year. I bought a SAD lamp, expected to come by FedEx next week. I sure hope it works.

But can a SAD lamp cure my fear of driving in slippery new-fallen snow? Can it provide the brilliant color that disappears from yards and entryways when all the summer flowers die? But I have decided not to dwell on these questions and take another positive step: listing all the things I like about winter (and this will take deep thought).

The first item that comes to mind is trivial but important to me: I love winter sweaters. No, not the ones with reindeers frolicking across the bosom or the ones with a Fair Isle pattern across the neckline. (Truthfully, I hate those sweaters.) I just love cashmere, merino wool, even heavy cabled cottons. I love the colors that winter sweaters come in too. Claret, amethyst, teal, and my all-time favorite, black.

Another thing I love about winter? I don't feel obligated to have regular pedicures. One exception: My annual visit to the gynecologist is always in winter, and I vainly make sure I have colorful, non-chipping toenails for that event.

I also like holiday parties, not just for the camaraderie, but also for the opportunity to wear those lovely winter sweaters...

I'm sure there are many more reasons to love winter, but I can't seem to summon them right now. Next post, I planned to talk about what I dislike about winter, but I can't think of a single thing that millions of others haven't said before about the season. So I'm officially off this subject, for now.

Just a simple "thank you"

2009-09-26T10:31:00.005-05:00

Allow me to deviate from the theme of this blog to mention an observation I've made over the years. Most—not all—of the women to whom compliments are given cannot simply answer with a "thank you." I include myself in this group. I'm one of the worst offenders, if this is the right word to describe it.

On second thought, there is a sort of charm to this offense. When told, for example, that the boots you're wearing are adorable, you may respond with "These? They're so old, I almost didn't wear them today. I'm not sure they're still in style." Or maybe someone told you, "I love your hair that way" and you replied, "Do you? I'm having such a bad hair day." Haven't you ever said something like "What a cute blouse!" only to hear the complimentee say "But it has a spot on the left side, under the arm"?

Why is it that so many women cannot let praise be praise? Why must we set the record straight lest the complimentor really think we are clueless about that spot or the outmoded fashion of our boots? I don't have the answers myself, so this is a rhetorical question, unless someone wishes to comment and let me know what's going on.

As I said, I believe this behavior might be charming rather than pathologic. After all, don't women—as a rule—often provide much more information than expected? We tend to overexplain. And maybe that's what makes us women. (Yes, there are many exceptions. But I haven't found too many of them in my own observations.)

A meal maven I'm not

2009-09-22T18:21:00.006-05:00

One thing I am not doing as I get older: Getting better at cooking. What I am doing is getting better at cooking without cooking. I can make a pretty impressive salad, complete with pine nuts and four kinds of lettuce. I can artfully arrange pita chips around a swirl of store-bought hummus with a little sprinkle of paprika on it. So I guess it's fair to say that putting out uncooked food is my forte. ("Forte" may be an exaggeration since it takes me three times as long as anyone else to cut up a cucumber.)

It's not that I can't cook at all. I'm now expected to bring a batch of potato kugel muffins to every Passover seder. I guess you would call that my signature dish. But, generally, I'm not confident when having to put food into an oven, watch it, possibly baste it regularly, and then know when it's done—with or without a food thermometer. When it finally comes out of the oven, I can't trust myself to slice it properly. Against the grain? With the grain? And which way is the grain going anyway?

I always thought that when I cut back on working (I'm now down to three days a week) I'd have the time to try new recipes and practice my culinary skills. But that hasn't happened. Besides contributing to mealtime only by making salads, I excel at collecting menus from nearby restaurants like Corner Bakery or Go Roma or the carry-out Szechwan palace down the street.

Who am I becoming?

2009-09-20T14:22:00.001-05:00

Years ago, I’d watch certain actions by my mother with amusement and a tinge of disdain. Become obsessive about collecting coupons? Not me. Not ever. Amass a pile of shopping bags and plastic totes—just in case they’re someday needed? Nope. Too messy. Too old-ladyish. Spend the day after hosting a family dinner complaining of exhaustion and turning down invitations to go out? I couldn’t see myself letting a little cleaning, cooking, and serving get the best of me.

But that was then. Little by little these days, I see my mother creep into my persona. For example, we hosted a small family holiday celebration last night. My husband did much of the cooking, although I ran up and down the aisles of two supermarkets during the day, dusted, and dragged out the heavy dining room table pads and retrieved the better china. But I also got down on the floor several times to play and commune with my preschool grandsons, each time groaning my way to an upright position. Then came today. I feel as if I’ve been in a triathlon without any training. I ache everywhere, and all I want to do is sleep or eat leftovers.

Am I collecting coupons? Yes, I cut them from the Sunday paper flyers religiously. I also, nine times out of ten, forget to use them. So in that respect, I’m not my mother. In fact, she would berate me for paying full price while a 50-cents-off coupon languishes inside my purse.

And the shopping bags? I have them, in a dark corner of our master closet. You never know when you have something to tote…

But it isn’t just my mother’s habits wending their way into my psyche. Decades ago, I found my paternal grandmother’s frequent meal of cottage cheese topped with canned fruit a little sad and definitely a symbol of old age. But recently I developed a taste for this combination—if only as a snack.

I’m not going to fight this though. I am what I am, or rather, I am what I’ve become and will continue to become. This process has given me a new appreciation for the older generation. I’m sure my mother and grandmother and anyone else whose habits I’ve adopted would love to hear me say that … if only they were still around.

I couldn't have done it myself

2009-09-18T21:32:00.000-05:00

Not having found any new facial flaws in the last 48 hours, I’m forced to find something else to gripe about. Nobody ever told me that, in my sixties, I would start to have difficulty clasping bracelets, opening jars, and tearing the protective paper seal off a carton of hummus. I'm fortunate to have a husband who, a few years my junior, can still do these things--most of the time.

I'm also unlucky enough to have reached this stage of life at the same time that manufacturers are making sure no product can be tampered with (even by its legal owner). It's some solace, though, that even twenty-somethings have trouble with the hard plastic clamshell that can't be opened without a butcher knife, if that.

Beauty, where art thou?

2009-09-16T21:53:00.001-05:00

It's a lose-lose situation: I use a lighted magnifying mirror because I need one. I'm still nearsighted (although getting more farsighted each year), and the mirror over my bathroom sink is too far away to allow me to put on eyeliner that actually lands at the top of my lashes. But peering into such a magnified view of my face, I discover daily atrocities. For example--and as long as I'm on the subject of eyelashes, where did my long, curly, thick lashes go? When did they get so thin and uninteresting?

And I can't seem to find my lips anywhere. Yes, they're still there, sort of, beneath my nostrils. But they're so...undefined. They're just there, looking neither lucious nor youthful. (Well, what did I expect at this age?)