According to Hubby, I’m lucky my head and arms are attached to my body because my multi-tasking ability “‘taint what it used to be.” As I dash from one “play date” to the next—with doctor’s appointments and marketing my book squeezed in-between—I’m constantly misplacing my glasses, my keys, my cell phone, or whatever I am suppose to bring or take with me.
Supposedly, I’ve been told, forgetting where you placed things, like car keys, doesn’t mean you’re becoming demented. Begin to fear the illnesses if you don’t remember what the keys are for. To that I say, “Bull.” My mother’s illness started with her not being able to find things, but she knew what they were for—right up until the end. Recently I had a 24-hour period of losing track of almost everything that wasn’t attached to me.
My living nightmare began after I played Mah Jongg at a friend’s house. Once home, I realized my Mah Jongg card was missing. For those who do not know the game, playing without this is akin to playing Bridge without cards. A phone call to my hostess let me know it was on her counter. I picked it up the next morning before heading 45-minutes south for lunch and more Mah Jongg. When the afternoon of joviality and games was over, I rushed out because I had a business appointment—I do have a life besides Mah Jongg!
One block before the entrance to the expressway, my cell phone rang. “You left your glasses here,” my friend said.
As I made my u-turn, my head pounded with the fear the dreaded dementia was nibbling my brain. Twenty minutes later, glasses safely tucked in my bag, I was on the highway heading home. I reached into my pocket for my cell so I could call my husband to let him know I was late. The phone wasn’t there. Panic set in, and at 65 mph, this is dangerous. Did I drop it when I had gotten out of the car to get the glasses? With one hand on the steering wheel, I dumped my bag’s contents onto the passenger’s seat. No phone. Tears filled my eyes.
How could I not have heard it crash to the ground when I got out of the car? I felt my ear to double check my hearing aides weren’t MIA also. I’m always in such a hurry I don’t concentrate. I’M NOT DEMENTED, JUST RUSHING TOO MUCH. I guess I didn’t believe my own repeated reassuring thoughts because tears streamed down my cheeks. I also stopped focusing on the road and didn’t notice the sign warning me that my lane was becoming an exit lane that lead me off the highway.
Two long traffic lights and one u-turn later, I was once again on the expressway. The constant pounding inside my head from my fear of the imminent death of my brain halted suddenly at the sound of the melodic music box tune that emanates from my cell phone. Relief was brief. The sound was nearby, but the phone was nowhere in sight. It took two calls—thankfully the caller was persistent—to discover the hiding place.
Okay dear readers. What’s worse? Dementia or having a butt so thick I couldn’t feel the hard phone underneath it? I know the answer. The only upside of my mother’s illness is she no longer cared about her weight.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Announcing...Sort Of
While I was on the phone with a dear friend a few days ago, she received another call and put me on hold. Moments later she got back on, shouting, “It’s a girl.”
I wished her, “Mazel Tov!” and together we sang a short happy Hebrew song of celebration. While singing nagging thoughts whirled through my head. I was sure the baby wasn’t due until late spring. Also, it was weird she wasn’t hanging up the phone, so she could “call the world.” The most puzzling thought was, since she is the kind of grandma who is right near her children for such a joyous occasion, why wasn’t she at the hospital.
Later that day, I shared the good news with a mutual friend. Her reaction dittoed mine. This morning, the two of us again discussed the news that seemed to be being kept a secret. My friend asked me if I was sure she said her DIL gave birth because it is so unlike her (our mutual friend) not to send out a mass email with the great news and catch the next plane to her kids.
Mentally, I reenacted the conversation, and said, “I’m positive she said, ‘It’s a girl.’”
The voice at the other end of my phone said, “Oh. She didn’t say she “had it.” All she said was its sex. I told you she’s not due until the summer.”
If I was an enterprising person, I would start to sell sonogram announcements. Why wait since by the time the baby arrives since nothing is a surprise anymore—unless of course, an unborn hand was over a private part and the tech didn’t realize it.
I wished her, “Mazel Tov!” and together we sang a short happy Hebrew song of celebration. While singing nagging thoughts whirled through my head. I was sure the baby wasn’t due until late spring. Also, it was weird she wasn’t hanging up the phone, so she could “call the world.” The most puzzling thought was, since she is the kind of grandma who is right near her children for such a joyous occasion, why wasn’t she at the hospital.
Later that day, I shared the good news with a mutual friend. Her reaction dittoed mine. This morning, the two of us again discussed the news that seemed to be being kept a secret. My friend asked me if I was sure she said her DIL gave birth because it is so unlike her (our mutual friend) not to send out a mass email with the great news and catch the next plane to her kids.
Mentally, I reenacted the conversation, and said, “I’m positive she said, ‘It’s a girl.’”
The voice at the other end of my phone said, “Oh. She didn’t say she “had it.” All she said was its sex. I told you she’s not due until the summer.”
If I was an enterprising person, I would start to sell sonogram announcements. Why wait since by the time the baby arrives since nothing is a surprise anymore—unless of course, an unborn hand was over a private part and the tech didn’t realize it.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Oy Vey!
*Kvetch: A relatively healthy adult surrounded by unnoticed blessings whose parents only paid attention to him or her when he or she was little and whined or had a tummy ache. The words, “I’m fine,” aren’t in his or her vocabulary unless laced with terse guilt. If the listener catches the guilt, he or she should learn the art of ducking.
The other day I had to call a known kvetch. She answered with her usual “death is imminent” tone in her voice. I quipped, “Make sure your kids call to tell me when the funeral will be.” The words may sound nasty to you, but they transmitted magic medication through the airwaves because her voice suddenly sounded bright and healthy. I used to feel sorry for this gal’s kids until I realized they are her enablers. They dote on her every whine, just as her parents probably did. She’s learned if she does it with me, I get off the phone ASAP.
Advice to young mothers: If you want to ruin your unborn grandchildren’s adult lives, let your children whine. If you love those unborn kids, only answer your children if they speak in a normal voice and dote on them when they are nice!!!
*Yiddish for constant complaining
The other day I had to call a known kvetch. She answered with her usual “death is imminent” tone in her voice. I quipped, “Make sure your kids call to tell me when the funeral will be.” The words may sound nasty to you, but they transmitted magic medication through the airwaves because her voice suddenly sounded bright and healthy. I used to feel sorry for this gal’s kids until I realized they are her enablers. They dote on her every whine, just as her parents probably did. She’s learned if she does it with me, I get off the phone ASAP.
Advice to young mothers: If you want to ruin your unborn grandchildren’s adult lives, let your children whine. If you love those unborn kids, only answer your children if they speak in a normal voice and dote on them when they are nice!!!
*Yiddish for constant complaining
Monday, March 14, 2011
Tails of the Mischievious Ciberspace Ghost
In my previous life, I must have offended someone real badly. This person’s ghost seeks vengeance by continuously making unnoticeible spelling or grammar errors in my Word Documents in the few seconds it takes for me to cut and paste them into my blog. I’m not aware of the dirty tricks until after my blog is posted, and a reader will sheepishly say or write, “Loved the blog, but you spelled something incorrectly.”
The ghost has haunted me since grade school giving many the incorrect impression I’m bearly spelling literate. White Out was my savior for years when I spotted the evil mistakes made becauze the ghost pushed my fingers on the wrong keys of my tipewriter. Before White Out, four those old enough to remember, I used paper—I think it was called onionskin—that was easy to erase and retipe without having to start the page again.
With the advent of the computer and tools such as spell and grammar check, I thought my spelling woes were over except for proper nouns like Neimen’s. Knowing how the evil ghost finds ways to harm my finished product, several proofreading pros combed the manuscript of Retired NOT Expired before I sent it through cyberspace to the publisher.
The book sales are going beyond my wildest dreams, but woe is me, the vengeful ghost found a way to do it’s damage! Thanks to electronic publishing, the damage in my book has been undone and all future copies should be error free. I also decided to stately in my loudest voice, “Please forgive me and don’t harm my work anymore.”
I’ve proof read this blog four times and it is error free! Hopefully, the ghost will find piece now an lay two rest.
http://www.edasuzanne.com/
The ghost has haunted me since grade school giving many the incorrect impression I’m bearly spelling literate. White Out was my savior for years when I spotted the evil mistakes made becauze the ghost pushed my fingers on the wrong keys of my tipewriter. Before White Out, four those old enough to remember, I used paper—I think it was called onionskin—that was easy to erase and retipe without having to start the page again.
With the advent of the computer and tools such as spell and grammar check, I thought my spelling woes were over except for proper nouns like Neimen’s. Knowing how the evil ghost finds ways to harm my finished product, several proofreading pros combed the manuscript of Retired NOT Expired before I sent it through cyberspace to the publisher.
The book sales are going beyond my wildest dreams, but woe is me, the vengeful ghost found a way to do it’s damage! Thanks to electronic publishing, the damage in my book has been undone and all future copies should be error free. I also decided to stately in my loudest voice, “Please forgive me and don’t harm my work anymore.”
I’ve proof read this blog four times and it is error free! Hopefully, the ghost will find piece now an lay two rest.
http://www.edasuzanne.com/
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
My Friend, My Blog
Each week I leave my senior paradise and head 45 minutes south to my previous neighborhood for an afternoon of lunch and then Mah Jongg with old friends. Those of you who have read my book, Retired NOT Expired, know that this lunch bunch and their spouses are the inspiration of much of the humor in the book—indeed one of the husband’s wants to know who will play him in the potential movie since Cary Grant is dead.(I can dream, can’t I?).
Anyway, back to the point. If you remember the chapter, “Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me,” one of my friend’s propensity for buying diet books inspired one of the funny fictional characters. Yesterday, while we were all sitting around one player’s kitchen table, a strange beeping could be heard. Immediately, each of us checked our cell phones to see which one had “laryngitis.” “It’s not your cell phones. It’s this.” With that said, my friend picked up her loose sleeve.
At first, as she explained her newest weight reduction plan, we all listened with straight faces.The gizmo, which resembled a mini blood pressure machine, was “telling her” she wasn’t burning up the calories she was consuming. I’m not sure of the details, but it seems this gadget monitors how many calories she burns a day and lets her know if she isn’t moving enough to burn off her allotment.
She never finished her explanation. Uncontrollable fits of laughter interrupted her mini lecture. When the rest of us regained our composure, I said, “People want me to begin my next book. I didn’t have a topic until now, but today I do—in fact it might be half way written. I’ll call it, My Friend, My Blog.”
More laughter erupted. The dieter was the only one who didn’t understand. You see, she doesn’t read my blogs and all the others do. They know I’ve written several blogs about her—most recently one about cell phones. When she realized what we were laughing at, she admitted she better begin to read them. Then she walked around the room until her "toy" silenced.
Oh – if this thing really works, I know what I want for Mother’s Day!
Anyway, back to the point. If you remember the chapter, “Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me,” one of my friend’s propensity for buying diet books inspired one of the funny fictional characters. Yesterday, while we were all sitting around one player’s kitchen table, a strange beeping could be heard. Immediately, each of us checked our cell phones to see which one had “laryngitis.” “It’s not your cell phones. It’s this.” With that said, my friend picked up her loose sleeve.
At first, as she explained her newest weight reduction plan, we all listened with straight faces.The gizmo, which resembled a mini blood pressure machine, was “telling her” she wasn’t burning up the calories she was consuming. I’m not sure of the details, but it seems this gadget monitors how many calories she burns a day and lets her know if she isn’t moving enough to burn off her allotment.
She never finished her explanation. Uncontrollable fits of laughter interrupted her mini lecture. When the rest of us regained our composure, I said, “People want me to begin my next book. I didn’t have a topic until now, but today I do—in fact it might be half way written. I’ll call it, My Friend, My Blog.”
More laughter erupted. The dieter was the only one who didn’t understand. You see, she doesn’t read my blogs and all the others do. They know I’ve written several blogs about her—most recently one about cell phones. When she realized what we were laughing at, she admitted she better begin to read them. Then she walked around the room until her "toy" silenced.
Oh – if this thing really works, I know what I want for Mother’s Day!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Whoops Again
It has been another “whoops why did I say that week”—and again I wasn’t the only one to have a slip of the tongue. In my old age, I have become a standup comic, AKA lecturer in Intellectually Active Old People Land. Many worthwhile organizations are constantly seeking brilliant lecturers, so if you are good, you work a lot. The not-so-hidden purpose of my new career is to spread the word about my book. The first time I gave my schpiel about how I reinvented my life after leaving teaching it was to an audience of folks I knew well. If I put my foot in my mouth, they knew me and loved me, so the world would not fall apart if I goofed.
Yesterday’s talk was a different story. The audience was a room full of strangers, all who had paid dearly to hear brilliant lecturers stimulate their gray matter. I had heard the speaker who preceded me on many occasions. He doesn’t miss a beat from start to end and keeps his audience’s follow-up discussions focused. As soon as someone strays from the topic, he has the skill to say quickly, “Good point, we’ll get back to that later.”
The comment hurts no one and prevents what I call “Show and Tell” discussions from ruining his talk—in other words, he knows how to keep control of the discussion and not give it to those who think their comment is relevant, but in actuality has zero to do with the topic.
There was a big difference between this speaker and me. He had his date booked months ago and was being paid. He had months to prepare. All he had to do yesterday was show up, talk, collect his money, and leave. I was a substitute—a last minute booking and agreed to talk free for the right to sell my book before and after my talk. My goal was to “get my book out there.” My purpose was not to educate but to sell. The real aim of my speech was to motivate the audience to buy the book by whetting their appetite with tidbits from the book. The talk went well—I heard lots of laughter—but when I asked for questions or comments, I goofed. One of the tidbits I divulged as an “appetizer” was the book contained the solution to the leading cause of acid reflux—splitting restaurant checks with others when you’re not the one who ran up the bar bill. One question that came up was, “How did you solve the problem?”
As a teacher, it was important to anticipate any question. As a lecturer, I’m learning that the questions being thrown at me are good, but I’m not anticipating them. Thus my answers to the questions aren’t the words I would have uttered if I had time to think about them. I responded, “You’ll have to buy the book to find out.”
This nice lady’s head went down along with my heart. I immediately apologized to her, especially since the audience laughed at my retort. True, the purpose of the lecture was to make people want to buy the book; however selling a book by innocently hurting someone is not my style. Since she immediately started to write down notes, my nightmare was she was doing a review of me and my future as a speaker was doomed.
I shared my goof with two friends. One, who runs many of these types of lectures, said I should have used the word “read” in lieu of “buy.” She told me famous authors do it all the time. I prayed all night that she was right and not just wanting to calm me. The morning headlines of the local paper didn’t doom me, but these inserts were written last week. I’ll let you know next week if I’m in trouble.
I also called my other friend—the one I wrote about last week who lives on a block where the germ causing oral diarrhea is worse than on mine. Once again, her story outdid mine. It seems she and her significant other of many years were walking in a nearby park. He was engrossed in conversation, didn’t notice something blocking his path, and went flying through the air. My friend panicked and screamed out a name, but it wasn’t his. It was her ex’s whom she divorce decades ago.
Her error was worse than mine—unless mine brings me negative press reviews.
Yesterday’s talk was a different story. The audience was a room full of strangers, all who had paid dearly to hear brilliant lecturers stimulate their gray matter. I had heard the speaker who preceded me on many occasions. He doesn’t miss a beat from start to end and keeps his audience’s follow-up discussions focused. As soon as someone strays from the topic, he has the skill to say quickly, “Good point, we’ll get back to that later.”
The comment hurts no one and prevents what I call “Show and Tell” discussions from ruining his talk—in other words, he knows how to keep control of the discussion and not give it to those who think their comment is relevant, but in actuality has zero to do with the topic.
There was a big difference between this speaker and me. He had his date booked months ago and was being paid. He had months to prepare. All he had to do yesterday was show up, talk, collect his money, and leave. I was a substitute—a last minute booking and agreed to talk free for the right to sell my book before and after my talk. My goal was to “get my book out there.” My purpose was not to educate but to sell. The real aim of my speech was to motivate the audience to buy the book by whetting their appetite with tidbits from the book. The talk went well—I heard lots of laughter—but when I asked for questions or comments, I goofed. One of the tidbits I divulged as an “appetizer” was the book contained the solution to the leading cause of acid reflux—splitting restaurant checks with others when you’re not the one who ran up the bar bill. One question that came up was, “How did you solve the problem?”
As a teacher, it was important to anticipate any question. As a lecturer, I’m learning that the questions being thrown at me are good, but I’m not anticipating them. Thus my answers to the questions aren’t the words I would have uttered if I had time to think about them. I responded, “You’ll have to buy the book to find out.”
This nice lady’s head went down along with my heart. I immediately apologized to her, especially since the audience laughed at my retort. True, the purpose of the lecture was to make people want to buy the book; however selling a book by innocently hurting someone is not my style. Since she immediately started to write down notes, my nightmare was she was doing a review of me and my future as a speaker was doomed.
I shared my goof with two friends. One, who runs many of these types of lectures, said I should have used the word “read” in lieu of “buy.” She told me famous authors do it all the time. I prayed all night that she was right and not just wanting to calm me. The morning headlines of the local paper didn’t doom me, but these inserts were written last week. I’ll let you know next week if I’m in trouble.
I also called my other friend—the one I wrote about last week who lives on a block where the germ causing oral diarrhea is worse than on mine. Once again, her story outdid mine. It seems she and her significant other of many years were walking in a nearby park. He was engrossed in conversation, didn’t notice something blocking his path, and went flying through the air. My friend panicked and screamed out a name, but it wasn’t his. It was her ex’s whom she divorce decades ago.
Her error was worse than mine—unless mine brings me negative press reviews.
Monday, February 7, 2011
No, No, That's Not What I Meant
True Confession: I am afflicted with a condition politely known as “Edaisms,” and impolitely known as “oral diarrhea.” The best definition for this “disease” is “Edaisms” are when words totally unrelated to what I want to say or what should say come cascading out of my mouth. These moments occur when my brain is multitaskin, and I’m not solely focused on what the unsuspecting speaker is saying. Sudden silence either in the room or at the other end of the phone usually awakens my consciousness to the fact it is my turn to talk. With that, I try to think of what was last discussed before my brain drifted elsewhere, and unless I admit that I didn’t quite hear the speaker, it is not uncommon for me to make a fool of myself by my answer. To combat this “illness” I try to repeat to myself, “stay focused” over and over. It usually helps, but not always.
“Edaisms” cause two things: unintentionally offending someone or having someone think I’m missing a link. Last week, when a friend called to firm up previously made plans, I was mortified and petrified. I had no clue to what she was referring to because I inadvertently didn’t write the date—made over a month prior— on my overcommitted social calendar. Hubby and I had made unchangeable plans weeks prior with several other couples for the same date, and that date was on all three of my calendars and set in stone.
As I said in previous blogs, forgetting scares me to my core because of my very real fear of dementia. My error of not writing the first date or referring to my calendar when I made the plans that I had to back out of, offended someone whom I adore. In an effort to defuse the situation, I wanted to say, “I wish I could be more flexible with my schedule.” Wanted—but didn’t. Instead I said, “I wish you could be more flexible.” The words came out, and to be gross, sometimes things come out that really stink. Common knowledge: stinks can’t be put back. You just have to hope there is plenty of fresh wind to blow them away before they do real damage.
A few days later, someone who is very well traveled and knows the ropes—someone whose opinion I would seek if I needed travel advice—told me she was going on a particular cruise ship. What popped into my head was, “She will be the one to let me know if the ship is really great or too oversized—both views that I have heard.” Instead of keeping my thoughts internal, I blurted out, “Some of my friends hate the ship and others loved it.” I HATE when people do this to me—tell me I might regret plans already made—so why on earth did this stupid comment flow from my lips? I was so upset when I got home, I sat and ate half a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream. I rationalized it was sugar free but ignored the fat content.
The next morning I shared my latest bout of socially unacceptable “Edasims” with a friend who is a therapist. My friend immediately hit the cause of the resurgence of my socially unacceptable “disease.” She told me that something must be in the water of our community. “Not only was one of the men we were out with last night guilty of “oral diarrhea,” she said, “but I responded the same way and my answer had me up the entire night.”
Her story dwarfed mine. Her tablemate assumed she had a “nose job” and told her so. Despite her insistence to the contrary, he kept harping on the fact it had to be “plastic” since it was so perfect. She knew the only way she could stop the conversation was if she changed the topic. “How many years ago did you get you’re penal implant?” she asked.
Silence filled the air. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what others in the room must have been thinking. Me? I’m glad I don’t live on her block. The drinking water there is more toxic than mine. My “Edaisms” might become so rude, I’d have to move!
“Edaisms” cause two things: unintentionally offending someone or having someone think I’m missing a link. Last week, when a friend called to firm up previously made plans, I was mortified and petrified. I had no clue to what she was referring to because I inadvertently didn’t write the date—made over a month prior— on my overcommitted social calendar. Hubby and I had made unchangeable plans weeks prior with several other couples for the same date, and that date was on all three of my calendars and set in stone.
As I said in previous blogs, forgetting scares me to my core because of my very real fear of dementia. My error of not writing the first date or referring to my calendar when I made the plans that I had to back out of, offended someone whom I adore. In an effort to defuse the situation, I wanted to say, “I wish I could be more flexible with my schedule.” Wanted—but didn’t. Instead I said, “I wish you could be more flexible.” The words came out, and to be gross, sometimes things come out that really stink. Common knowledge: stinks can’t be put back. You just have to hope there is plenty of fresh wind to blow them away before they do real damage.
A few days later, someone who is very well traveled and knows the ropes—someone whose opinion I would seek if I needed travel advice—told me she was going on a particular cruise ship. What popped into my head was, “She will be the one to let me know if the ship is really great or too oversized—both views that I have heard.” Instead of keeping my thoughts internal, I blurted out, “Some of my friends hate the ship and others loved it.” I HATE when people do this to me—tell me I might regret plans already made—so why on earth did this stupid comment flow from my lips? I was so upset when I got home, I sat and ate half a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream. I rationalized it was sugar free but ignored the fat content.
The next morning I shared my latest bout of socially unacceptable “Edasims” with a friend who is a therapist. My friend immediately hit the cause of the resurgence of my socially unacceptable “disease.” She told me that something must be in the water of our community. “Not only was one of the men we were out with last night guilty of “oral diarrhea,” she said, “but I responded the same way and my answer had me up the entire night.”
Her story dwarfed mine. Her tablemate assumed she had a “nose job” and told her so. Despite her insistence to the contrary, he kept harping on the fact it had to be “plastic” since it was so perfect. She knew the only way she could stop the conversation was if she changed the topic. “How many years ago did you get you’re penal implant?” she asked.
Silence filled the air. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what others in the room must have been thinking. Me? I’m glad I don’t live on her block. The drinking water there is more toxic than mine. My “Edaisms” might become so rude, I’d have to move!
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