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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
To e-read or not to e-read?
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.
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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
If you’re happy and you know it...
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…)
• 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…)
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Senior no-no? I'm stumped.
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.
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.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Please don’t use the E word
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.
“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.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Fish tales (but no tails, please)
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A glimpse of my youth—dermatologically speaking
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.
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…
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