I usually insist Hubby is the only pack rat in this house, but since we began packing, I am forced to admit to myself that I, too, am a bit of a saver of junk. Our reasons are quite different. My other half saves things he thinks have value. I save for sentimental reasons. We took our fine china and stem ware out of the cabinets and began to pack it. As I began to slip each dish into the foam packing envelopes, the chips on certain items -dinner plates, a soup bowl, and on a few glasses of the stemware my parents gave me - haunted me. There was also a chip on the spout of a Wedgewood pitcher my favorite aunt gave me. The damage has been there for years, but sentimental me could not simply trash the items. I never use them, but can’t bare to part with them. I still remember the joy of unwrapping them when they were new.
When you move, you pay by weight, so do I finally let go of the past, or do I pay to move stuff that has no use? I shared my dilemma with my cousin. He told me to either dump the worthless stuff or buy another plot to take it with me. It put everything in prospective. The broken items went into trash.
My adult children have been helping us pack. My daughter-in-law also forced me to confront my pack rat tendencies. Yesterday, as we were weeding through the bottom of my China cabinet, we discovered hidden treasures that have value on eBay but no buyers. As I stared at these sentimental treasures that I have no use for she said, “Either you get rid of them now or I donate them to charity when we move you into the Assisted Living in ten years.”
I hope it is more than ten years, but boy did that motivate me to add things to the rummage pile like the hand made beaded flowers that are ugly as sin but my mother had made for me or the chaffing dishes I haven’t used in 30 years.
Moving day is in less than two weeks. Hopefully, in a month from now I will be able to post again regularly. At least unpacking will be easier than packing. Everything should have a purpose. Then again, maybe Hubby found a way to sneak into one of the cartons the old 33’s or some of the old cameras he still insists have value. I have truly sworn off moving anything that has no value or use - except my size 8 dresses.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Busy Day in Bureaucrat Land
Busy Day in Bureaucrat Land
Hubby’s and my passports need to be renewed. I called the number in the phone book and a robotic voice answered. I still find it weird speaking to a robot, but I did. Supposedly, if the computer understood my accent, I should get the renewal forms on an unknown date. This is not good enough because we may need our passports in the very near future. Someone told me that the post office handles passport renewals. Since on all previous attempts, no human ever answered the phone at our local post office, Hubby and I drove there. A clerk said they did not have the forms and directed us to the main post office – 20 miles away – to get the forms. After waiting on line there, a very nice person pointed to a display. “It’s the purple one,” she said. “You do renewals by yourself via the mail. This line is for new passports.”
Why every post office doesn’t carry the renewal applications remains a mystery.
With the forms neatly tucked into our manila envelope along with our new pictures and old passports, Hubby and I then headed to our local police station for our next errand. For complicated reasons, Hubby needs to legally switch his middle and first names. To do this, he needs to be finger printed. To our amazement, our local police station no longer does finger printing. I wondered what they did when they arrested people but refrained from asking. The clerk sent us to a sub-station several miles away. We got there to discover they aren’t allowed to do finger-printing for name changes. She told us we had to go cross-town – near the main post office – to a special office that handles finger printing for people that want their name changed. She said there was no logical reason, but “them’s the rules.”
By then it was almost dinnertime. Hubby and I realized we had shared another “welcome to life as a retiree” moment. We spent the entire day in the car doing errands and accomplished virtually nothing. Oh well, at least we have what to do tomorrow. Hopefully, after he gets the finger printing taken care of, the local courthouse clerk will not tell us we need to go to D.C. to deliver the forms – or back to the Bronx where he was born.
Hubby’s and my passports need to be renewed. I called the number in the phone book and a robotic voice answered. I still find it weird speaking to a robot, but I did. Supposedly, if the computer understood my accent, I should get the renewal forms on an unknown date. This is not good enough because we may need our passports in the very near future. Someone told me that the post office handles passport renewals. Since on all previous attempts, no human ever answered the phone at our local post office, Hubby and I drove there. A clerk said they did not have the forms and directed us to the main post office – 20 miles away – to get the forms. After waiting on line there, a very nice person pointed to a display. “It’s the purple one,” she said. “You do renewals by yourself via the mail. This line is for new passports.”
Why every post office doesn’t carry the renewal applications remains a mystery.
With the forms neatly tucked into our manila envelope along with our new pictures and old passports, Hubby and I then headed to our local police station for our next errand. For complicated reasons, Hubby needs to legally switch his middle and first names. To do this, he needs to be finger printed. To our amazement, our local police station no longer does finger printing. I wondered what they did when they arrested people but refrained from asking. The clerk sent us to a sub-station several miles away. We got there to discover they aren’t allowed to do finger-printing for name changes. She told us we had to go cross-town – near the main post office – to a special office that handles finger printing for people that want their name changed. She said there was no logical reason, but “them’s the rules.”
By then it was almost dinnertime. Hubby and I realized we had shared another “welcome to life as a retiree” moment. We spent the entire day in the car doing errands and accomplished virtually nothing. Oh well, at least we have what to do tomorrow. Hopefully, after he gets the finger printing taken care of, the local courthouse clerk will not tell us we need to go to D.C. to deliver the forms – or back to the Bronx where he was born.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Big Decisions
My blogs will be sporadic for the next few months. My brain and time are focused on two major issues. Thankfully neither one is a matter of life nor death, but they are the kind that drive me to eat. Our home of 35 years has sold, we hope. In today’s market, until the sellers leave the closing table with a check in hand, nothing is a done deal. Still, Hubby and I must be positive, and pack. We have four weeks to go, and it is time. We also still have not finalized on the home we hope to buy.
Today we decided to start with the front bedroom This means opening dresser drawers that were once my sons’, but since he moved out years ago, they’ve become receptacles for goodies long forgotten. The same is true for the closet. “What are these old 33’s doing here?” I asked Hubby this morning.
“I want them. They’re collectors’ albums,” he said.
“Where are we going to keep them?” I asked.
“Get rid of some of your stuff, too,” he retorted.
“My junk is valuable, unlike yours,” I quipped.
Books I want, he says are silly, and the ones he wants, he hasn’t looked at in years. I thought we would need two cartons for photo albums, and we ended up needing seven. Friends who have done this “downsizing” move warned me to use small cartons so we can pick them up. We thought the cartons were small, but still could barely lift them.
My granddaughter asked me to please pack the stuffed animals and the blocks. “My brother still plays with them – and the riding toys.”
That’s what I get for asking. I really thought she’d tell me they were all too old for little kids’ toys.
After four hours, I opened a cabinet I thought was empty. It was stuffed with envelopes of duplicate pictures, pictures from cruises, and drawings my kids and grandkids made for us. I knew I had several choices. Go through them and dump what should be dumped, put them in a carton as is, or quit for the day. Since I am now typing this, you know what I decided.
Today we decided to start with the front bedroom This means opening dresser drawers that were once my sons’, but since he moved out years ago, they’ve become receptacles for goodies long forgotten. The same is true for the closet. “What are these old 33’s doing here?” I asked Hubby this morning.
“I want them. They’re collectors’ albums,” he said.
“Where are we going to keep them?” I asked.
“Get rid of some of your stuff, too,” he retorted.
“My junk is valuable, unlike yours,” I quipped.
Books I want, he says are silly, and the ones he wants, he hasn’t looked at in years. I thought we would need two cartons for photo albums, and we ended up needing seven. Friends who have done this “downsizing” move warned me to use small cartons so we can pick them up. We thought the cartons were small, but still could barely lift them.
My granddaughter asked me to please pack the stuffed animals and the blocks. “My brother still plays with them – and the riding toys.”
That’s what I get for asking. I really thought she’d tell me they were all too old for little kids’ toys.
After four hours, I opened a cabinet I thought was empty. It was stuffed with envelopes of duplicate pictures, pictures from cruises, and drawings my kids and grandkids made for us. I knew I had several choices. Go through them and dump what should be dumped, put them in a carton as is, or quit for the day. Since I am now typing this, you know what I decided.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Cocktail Hour at COSTCO
Today Hubby and I officially became full-fledged, stereotype, seniors. We were out on errands all afternoon – our last stop being COSTCO – right before the dinner hour. I usually shop in COSTCO early afternoon or at night, so I was not aware that late afternoon was “Cocktail Hour.” Occasionally I see samples when I shop in the early afternoon, but never to the extent that they had them that time of the day.
It was almost as if from the time I entered the store until it was time to check out, a different course of a 7-course menu was along my usual path. From cheese on crackers, nuts, a tiny taste of lasagna, goodies were everywhere. Best of all was the whole-wheat breaded tilapia. (It was so good, we went back for seconds, then thirds, and finally brought two packages to take home.)
Hubby was disappointed there were no samples in the wine section. “After all, what’s a good cocktail hour without wine?” he asked.
Someone overheard him. “There may not be wine, but the dessert makes up for it,” she said and pointed to a lady doling out samples of chocolate.
As we loaded our car, I started to laugh. “Do you remember how years ago we made fun of my parents and their friends who only ate at the early-bird specials?”
He nodded.
Well, it’s not even five and we’ve already eaten.
It was almost as if from the time I entered the store until it was time to check out, a different course of a 7-course menu was along my usual path. From cheese on crackers, nuts, a tiny taste of lasagna, goodies were everywhere. Best of all was the whole-wheat breaded tilapia. (It was so good, we went back for seconds, then thirds, and finally brought two packages to take home.)
Hubby was disappointed there were no samples in the wine section. “After all, what’s a good cocktail hour without wine?” he asked.
Someone overheard him. “There may not be wine, but the dessert makes up for it,” she said and pointed to a lady doling out samples of chocolate.
As we loaded our car, I started to laugh. “Do you remember how years ago we made fun of my parents and their friends who only ate at the early-bird specials?”
He nodded.
Well, it’s not even five and we’ve already eaten.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Pork Free
It’s hard to write funny when you have a lot of toxicity going on in your life. Thankfully, everyone has their health, but otherwise tensions are piling up. Indirectly I can blame everything on the politics in Washington.
Without playing the blame game – and there is plenty to go around – my husband is virtually unemployed. He is a property appraiser, and, needless to say, his business has gone into heart failure. Thus, he is home, and instead of appraising homes, he is appraising my every move.
We are trying to sell our home of 35 years and move into what we call an adult sleep away camp a.k.a. over 55 development. However, since the banks are not lending to anyone, nothing is selling. If banks are not lending to people even with squeaky-clean credit, (if they need money for a mortgage or bridge loan), no one can buy or sell.
And what is Washington doing to fix the mess? Let’s see, the Democrats are trying to find people who paid their taxes to be in the cabinet and the Republicans are consulting Joe the Plumber, who is not a plumber, as to how to fix the country.
Since both parties claim they don't want pork in any stimulus package, but in actuality only want their own recipes – the Republicans liked BBQ pork and the Dems like it sweet and sour – I have a suggestion to get rid of all the pork, regardless of recipes. Many Jews refrain from eating pork. Kosher Jews insist on their meat being Kosher. They have a Rabbi supervise preparations to make sure, among other things, nothing such as pork contaminates it. Perhaps Congress can hire a Rabbi to supervise the stimulus package. Then it will be pork-free and everyone in the US will be able to eat it.
Without playing the blame game – and there is plenty to go around – my husband is virtually unemployed. He is a property appraiser, and, needless to say, his business has gone into heart failure. Thus, he is home, and instead of appraising homes, he is appraising my every move.
We are trying to sell our home of 35 years and move into what we call an adult sleep away camp a.k.a. over 55 development. However, since the banks are not lending to anyone, nothing is selling. If banks are not lending to people even with squeaky-clean credit, (if they need money for a mortgage or bridge loan), no one can buy or sell.
And what is Washington doing to fix the mess? Let’s see, the Democrats are trying to find people who paid their taxes to be in the cabinet and the Republicans are consulting Joe the Plumber, who is not a plumber, as to how to fix the country.
Since both parties claim they don't want pork in any stimulus package, but in actuality only want their own recipes – the Republicans liked BBQ pork and the Dems like it sweet and sour – I have a suggestion to get rid of all the pork, regardless of recipes. Many Jews refrain from eating pork. Kosher Jews insist on their meat being Kosher. They have a Rabbi supervise preparations to make sure, among other things, nothing such as pork contaminates it. Perhaps Congress can hire a Rabbi to supervise the stimulus package. Then it will be pork-free and everyone in the US will be able to eat it.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Who's Calling? Should It Matter?
My husband doesn’t answer our home phone unless he is positive I am physically unable to do so, meaning I am not home. He insists it is never for him, so why should he disrupt what he is doing to answer the phone – even if all he is doing is sleeping and watching television – something he mastered years ago. I know he is multitasking because if I turn off the TV, he immediately tells me to turn it back on.
Anyway, if I am physically unable to pick up the phone and he recognizes the caller, he will pick up the phone and hand it to me. Heaven forbid he should say “Hello.” However, if the caller ID only flashes a number or, even worse, “unknown name, unknown number,” he will turn and ask me, “Who is it?”
By the time I explain that I am not clairvoyant, either our machine picks up or the caller hangs up. The latter really infuriates me because then I never know if the “unknown name , unknown caller” was someone intending to bestow a million dollars on me because I answered my phone. The only phone calls Hubby answers ASAP are those on his cell phone. He says that if it is his phone, the call is for him.
The other day I had friends over for our weekly game of Mah Jongg. Hubby was in his home office. Our phone rang. There is an extension on his desk. I assumed he would answer it. He did not. My friends and I laughed at how our husbands all dislike answering the phone. Is it because when they worked, their secretaries censored their calls? Do they think of their wives as their secretaries?
Anyway, I found a solution to my problem. Now when I am busy, I use call forwarding and forward our home phone calls to his cell phone.
Anyway, if I am physically unable to pick up the phone and he recognizes the caller, he will pick up the phone and hand it to me. Heaven forbid he should say “Hello.” However, if the caller ID only flashes a number or, even worse, “unknown name, unknown number,” he will turn and ask me, “Who is it?”
By the time I explain that I am not clairvoyant, either our machine picks up or the caller hangs up. The latter really infuriates me because then I never know if the “unknown name , unknown caller” was someone intending to bestow a million dollars on me because I answered my phone. The only phone calls Hubby answers ASAP are those on his cell phone. He says that if it is his phone, the call is for him.
The other day I had friends over for our weekly game of Mah Jongg. Hubby was in his home office. Our phone rang. There is an extension on his desk. I assumed he would answer it. He did not. My friends and I laughed at how our husbands all dislike answering the phone. Is it because when they worked, their secretaries censored their calls? Do they think of their wives as their secretaries?
Anyway, I found a solution to my problem. Now when I am busy, I use call forwarding and forward our home phone calls to his cell phone.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Drug Plans
About thirty years ago, all of my peers would become irritable when our children’s science fair projects were due. Constructing the display board was not an easy job unless you were a skilled carpenter. The three-sided display board didn’t come onto the market until our kids were in college.
The annual stress of yesteryear's science project has been replaced by today’s mandatory yearly reevaluating of my friends and my Medicare Part D coverage. We need to make sure our current carrier of Medicare Part D – the drug prescription program – meets our current needs. You see, individual carriers change their rules and prices every year.
When the program first started, all I had to do was call 1-800- Medicare, and a nice person took all my information – meaning all the drugs hubby and I take on a regular basis – and magically told me what carrier was best for each of us. And, what was most amazing for a government agency, they were right. This year that has changed. Every time I’ve called, the person on the phone told me something else or gave me misinformation.
To show you how this is wearing me down, yesterday when I called a carrier to verify the information the government gave me, I asked the man on the phone if GPS was one of the local pharmacies on the plan. After several minutes, the person said, “Miss, I can’t find any pharmacy by that name.”
Then I realized what I asked him and laughed. That night, while I packed for Thanksgiving in New York, hubby handed me his favorite navigational device. “Oh, the CVS,” I said.
He looked at me as if I was nuts. I wasn’t. Just tired and I still haven’t figured which plan is best!
The annual stress of yesteryear's science project has been replaced by today’s mandatory yearly reevaluating of my friends and my Medicare Part D coverage. We need to make sure our current carrier of Medicare Part D – the drug prescription program – meets our current needs. You see, individual carriers change their rules and prices every year.
When the program first started, all I had to do was call 1-800- Medicare, and a nice person took all my information – meaning all the drugs hubby and I take on a regular basis – and magically told me what carrier was best for each of us. And, what was most amazing for a government agency, they were right. This year that has changed. Every time I’ve called, the person on the phone told me something else or gave me misinformation.
To show you how this is wearing me down, yesterday when I called a carrier to verify the information the government gave me, I asked the man on the phone if GPS was one of the local pharmacies on the plan. After several minutes, the person said, “Miss, I can’t find any pharmacy by that name.”
Then I realized what I asked him and laughed. That night, while I packed for Thanksgiving in New York, hubby handed me his favorite navigational device. “Oh, the CVS,” I said.
He looked at me as if I was nuts. I wasn’t. Just tired and I still haven’t figured which plan is best!
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