Ciao, Shalom, Salaam, Aloha (goodbye—and hello)

To my loyal readers (and there are a few out there): This will be my last post on this blog. As of today, I am no longer (gulp) in my 60s.

I don't feel any different than I did yesterday. I sure hope I don't look any different. And my good friends who have achieved this milestone a month or two before me tell me it's no big deal. It's just a number. They feel great. They're happy to be alive and well and have never enjoyed life more. (Some of these happy souls are in Arizona or Florida basking in the sun, and I'm sure that adds to the euphoria.)

I too am glad to be alive and well, and I hope to spend this new decade with happiness, good health, and creativity. It's good to have gotten to this point in life. I'm painfully aware that not everyone makes it.

Here, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, are my thoughts about my age. First, the bad news:

1. In only 10 years, I'll be 80!

2. Related to No. 1: The years go by faster and faster.

3. "Use it or lose it" is even more meaningful now. I'd better start using whatever it is I don't want to lose.

4. It's getting even more difficult to get out of a chair. (May be related to No. 3.)

Here's the good news:

1. In Cook County, if I get a summons for jury duty, I can now either ask for a change of venue (say, from 26th and California to the Skokie courthouse) or I can opt out altogether. (Note: I'm not opposed to jury duty. I have served six times, the last one on a week-long trial, which I found fascinating. But I'm done.)

2. It may be time for full retirement, with carefree, sleep-late-if-I-want-to mornings. So far, I'm still plugging away 3 days a week. But if I ever get a real hobby, it's nice to know that I can step down and go off in a new direction without feeling I gave up too soon.

3. Having friends and fellow alumni who are in the same decade and who understand my mixed emotions on this milestone—and, like me, enjoy joking about our perceived limitations.

I'm giving up this blog, but I'm not giving up blogging. I'm working on a new one. So far, all I have are several possible names, or themes, for the new blog. None has hit the spot yet, and I'm still ruminating. Any ideas are welcome.

Thanks for reading and sharing!

Decluttering for the next decade

This is the time of year for article upon article on decluttering. An entire O Magazine issue was dedicated to the subject. And I can't seem to get enough of it. I'm always looking for ideas on organizing...my closets, my drawers, my desk, my life. It's not that I'm a hoarder (Gor forbid) or even a pack rat. In fact, I'm much better about tossing unused items than I used to be. But I can do better.

Maybe cleaning out my mother's condo when she died in 2005 helped me realize that I wouldn't want my kids to go through my things after I'm gone and ask, "What in the world did she keep this for?" I also realized my mother's life might have been a little easier if she didn't have to look at the corner of her bedroom that was a shrine for boxes, plastic bags, shopping bags, and whatever would fit into any of those containers. Really, it was a mound of stuff. Then there was her walk-in closet, filled with clothing from at least four decades. She had items hanging there that, even if they came back in style, would never fit her. Ever. And some items had been hanging there so long, the foam covering on the hangers disintegrated as I handled them. On the other hand, having lived through the Depression, maybe she was comforted by seeing the hundreds of rubber bands in her kitchen drawer and the books of S&H Green Stamps stashed on a shelf. I know that I don't want to live that way.

So I've been purging my closets, drawers, and shelves ever since. As I said, I can do better. And I also have to be discriminating in what I give away or toss. A few years ago, I started eating healthier and exercising more (mainly because of a fear of dying of something related to high cholesterol or sloth). I lost about 15 pounds and was delighted to be able to buy a smaller size in pants and skirts. This, I declared, was the way I was going to live the rest of my now-healthy life. I would never go back to slathering two pieces of bread with butter in a restaurant or taking a second piece of chocolate cake at a birthday party. I would use low-fat non-creamy salad dressings and look away when passing through the candy aisle. So I donated all my larger pants and other clothing items that had become way too big.

Then, about a year-and-a-half ago, old habits crept back. I don't know why, and I did nothing to stop them. Before long, my newer, smaller pants were getting slightly snug. Soon, they were unwearable. How I longed to have my old clothes back! Now I'm buying the larger sizes and vowing to keep them in the back of my closet if (rather, when) I lose the weight again.

But I've been pretty good about visits to the Goodwill donation center, about two or three times a year. It feels wonderful to get that stuff out of the house and garage. So why do I still have two overstuffed closets? And why are my books stacked up in double rows? Am I really going to read all those novels again? I suppose I could forget that I've already read one and not realize it until I come upon a character with an unusual name and think, "I've seen that name before...". It's like old 48 Hours Mystery episodes that don't look familiar until the district attorney who has a pronounced Southern accent or odd hair style is interviewed and I begin to remember watching it the first two times it aired. Getting back to books, I now have a Kindle, and although I still love the look and feel of a paperback book, I can have an entire literary collection in one convenient little device.

So here's my new resolution. I will once again purge my closets and my bookshelves. My drawers might be a lost cause, but I may get to them eventually. And I will look at each item and try to imagine my heirs' reactions before I make the decision to toss or keep. Then I'll move on to my email Inboxes and the files I'm keeping on my work computer from 2003 and even earlier. I may even go through the linen closet and ask myself if those multi-colored towels are ever going to be displayed again. (If they're to become rags or padding for hauling items to Goodwill, they belong in the garage...but that's another space that desperately needs an overhaul.)

I'm celebrating a big birthday tomorrow, so this resolution to clear out what's not needed is timely. I want the next decade to be more serene, more carefree, less cluttered in a physical, mental, and emotional way. And maybe I'll celebrate by buying myself an outfit, a few books, and some new towels. That will make it mandatory to carry out the resolution, unless I also rent a storage unit.

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

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:

1. Make plans (Sunday brunches, maybe?)
2. Get a hobby (one that I'll stick with beyond buying all the equipment and gear)
3. Volunteer (I know, I know...someday I'll do that)
4. 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

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?

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

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???

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:

1. 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.
2. 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

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

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...

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

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

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

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)

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

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..."

***********************
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?

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

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…

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

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.)

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

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

Eye yi yi yi...

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

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

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

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

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.