I never cut and paste or even send jokes on but this one is worth it!
The computer swallowed grandma.
Yes, honestly its true!
She pressed 'control' and 'enter'
And disappeared from view.
It devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm.
I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I've even used the Internet,
But nothing did I find.
In desperation, I asked Jeeves
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found 'online.
'So, if inside your 'Inbox,'
My Grandma you should see,
Please 'Copy,''Scan' and 'Paste' herAnd send her back to me.
This is a tribute to all the Grandmas
who have been fearless and . .. . .
Learned to use the Computer......
WE are the greatest!!!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
It's All in a Name, Or Is It?
When I started to write blogs and send essays to newspapers, for many personal reasons I desired anonymity – and still do. Hence, the use of a pen last name for me and an invented nickname for my husband. However, a hot discussion has come up today about the use of “Hubby” for my other half. During the last several years, I noticed many writers were using it, albeit my generation never did. I wanted to be up to date in my vocabulary and adopted it.
After reading my first blogs, my husband’s much older sister called me and told me the word irritated her so much that she found she could not read the anecdotes. “My brother is not the “Hubby” type she insisted. He sounds like a henpecked wimp, and he’s not.” Since lately she has begun to complain about everything, I ignored her criticism.
Today the discussion took on another turn. My blog readers Hubby’s age – and he is a few years older than me – just a few – don’t like the word. Women, near my kids’ age and younger, use it or don’t object to it. This is a predicament. Characters’ names are important, even in a humorous book. I am almost ready to send in my manuscript –or self-publish – and need to decide ASAP. Being a true Gemini, I can’t decide. All day I’ve been craving chocolate worried that the use of the name “Hubby” could cause my book to be rejected by editors or readers.
Since it involves his public image, I decided to ask my husband of 47 years what he thought. He looked up from his newspaper and gave me the standard cliché that has been used by every husband and/or hubby for generations. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.”
Now I turn to my readers, what do you think of the word “Hubby?” Is it demeaning, endearing, or irrelevant? I hope you are not Gemini’s like me!
After reading my first blogs, my husband’s much older sister called me and told me the word irritated her so much that she found she could not read the anecdotes. “My brother is not the “Hubby” type she insisted. He sounds like a henpecked wimp, and he’s not.” Since lately she has begun to complain about everything, I ignored her criticism.
Today the discussion took on another turn. My blog readers Hubby’s age – and he is a few years older than me – just a few – don’t like the word. Women, near my kids’ age and younger, use it or don’t object to it. This is a predicament. Characters’ names are important, even in a humorous book. I am almost ready to send in my manuscript –or self-publish – and need to decide ASAP. Being a true Gemini, I can’t decide. All day I’ve been craving chocolate worried that the use of the name “Hubby” could cause my book to be rejected by editors or readers.
Since it involves his public image, I decided to ask my husband of 47 years what he thought. He looked up from his newspaper and gave me the standard cliché that has been used by every husband and/or hubby for generations. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.”
Now I turn to my readers, what do you think of the word “Hubby?” Is it demeaning, endearing, or irrelevant? I hope you are not Gemini’s like me!
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Welcome Wagon
A dear friend moved to a brand new, adult community around the same time Hubby and I moved into a ten-year old, “seniorville.” So far, the main difference between buying a resale and buying in a new community is the way your neighbors greet you. Most of her neighbors were unpacking just like her, so she wasn’t flooded with high-caloric, home-baked goods as Hubby and I were. Therefore, if you want to keep your weight down, it is better to buy a new house in a new community.
Hubby’s a potential diabetic, watches himself 24/7, and has never understood my total lack of will power. He goes ballistic over my habit of putting left over desserts in the garbage disposal when company leaves. By now, he knows that if I don’t toss it, it will end up on my butt, so he no longer hits the ceiling when I get rid of the sweets.
However, I felt guilty about throwing out the homemade goods that were meant to welcome us to our new community – not that the gift givers would ever know it. Thus, you know who devoured the cakes one sliver at a time. Needless to say, the few pounds I lost while packing have returned. I have vowed if and when anyone new moves onto my block, I will greet them with a fresh veggie platter and diet dip.
Hubby’s a potential diabetic, watches himself 24/7, and has never understood my total lack of will power. He goes ballistic over my habit of putting left over desserts in the garbage disposal when company leaves. By now, he knows that if I don’t toss it, it will end up on my butt, so he no longer hits the ceiling when I get rid of the sweets.
However, I felt guilty about throwing out the homemade goods that were meant to welcome us to our new community – not that the gift givers would ever know it. Thus, you know who devoured the cakes one sliver at a time. Needless to say, the few pounds I lost while packing have returned. I have vowed if and when anyone new moves onto my block, I will greet them with a fresh veggie platter and diet dip.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Decorating Disaster
When we were first married, Hubby and I shopped for our furniture together. It was quickly obvious to me that we had different taste. We compromised on all choices. I was a new bride and enjoyed the experience of having my new husband take part in the decorating of our home. As each individual piece of furniture arrived, I was anything but ecstatic. Our living room was a hodgepodge of colors and styles that did not jell. Even the word "eclectic" was not suitable. My mother told me it was my fault. “What do men know about decorating?” she asked. “Besides, they forget what they picked two minutes after you leave the store.”
“The salesperson was a man,” I said.
“So? See what a mess he made of it. Men just know how to sell. Do you know any man that can match his socks to his pants?”
I could not argue with her on that point. My father wore white socks with everything and I was already coordinating my husband’s clothes.
Every time I vacuumed, I didn’t care if something was nicked. Silently, when my oversized aunt sat on the sofa, I hoped it would collapse. I fanaticized about painting the wood on the buffet a color I liked.
When we moved to Florida 35 years ago, a new friend gave me great advice. “The person who cleans is the one who must love the furniture. If not, you’ll get no pride when you finish your house work.” I listened and left Hubby home while I shopped for new living room furniture. He was busy starting a new business and was visibly relieved when I only consulted him when I was down to two or three choices that I loved. This time the finished product was one I adored.
Then we moved a few months ago, and my perfect furnishings looked vey imperfect in my new surroundings. Since you know who has time on his hands, guess who is shopping with me for new furniture. It has been almost 50 years since we last did this, and do you know what? NOTHING has changed. Hubby still has strong opinions on what we need and where we should buy, and I am compromising my views or just giving in as I did years ago – with the same results. The new items are arriving and instead of being ecstatic, I am down in the dumps.
I told him I have no choice but to change our house rules unless he lets me make the decisions on all the rest of the things we need. Since he loves everything we are getting, he will have to take over the dusting and vacuuming (my jobs), and I will take care of the outside – his responsibility. I love the gardens and the flowers that surround our retirement paradise, especially since our development’s fees include all ourside maintenance.
Hubby told me to go back to shopping solo and let him know when I’m down to two choices. He knows a good deal – when it comes to maintaining our home.
.
“The salesperson was a man,” I said.
“So? See what a mess he made of it. Men just know how to sell. Do you know any man that can match his socks to his pants?”
I could not argue with her on that point. My father wore white socks with everything and I was already coordinating my husband’s clothes.
Every time I vacuumed, I didn’t care if something was nicked. Silently, when my oversized aunt sat on the sofa, I hoped it would collapse. I fanaticized about painting the wood on the buffet a color I liked.
When we moved to Florida 35 years ago, a new friend gave me great advice. “The person who cleans is the one who must love the furniture. If not, you’ll get no pride when you finish your house work.” I listened and left Hubby home while I shopped for new living room furniture. He was busy starting a new business and was visibly relieved when I only consulted him when I was down to two or three choices that I loved. This time the finished product was one I adored.
Then we moved a few months ago, and my perfect furnishings looked vey imperfect in my new surroundings. Since you know who has time on his hands, guess who is shopping with me for new furniture. It has been almost 50 years since we last did this, and do you know what? NOTHING has changed. Hubby still has strong opinions on what we need and where we should buy, and I am compromising my views or just giving in as I did years ago – with the same results. The new items are arriving and instead of being ecstatic, I am down in the dumps.
I told him I have no choice but to change our house rules unless he lets me make the decisions on all the rest of the things we need. Since he loves everything we are getting, he will have to take over the dusting and vacuuming (my jobs), and I will take care of the outside – his responsibility. I love the gardens and the flowers that surround our retirement paradise, especially since our development’s fees include all ourside maintenance.
Hubby told me to go back to shopping solo and let him know when I’m down to two choices. He knows a good deal – when it comes to maintaining our home.
.
Friday, June 26, 2009
It's What You Make of It
Some people are afraid to retire because they fear the highlight of their day will be doctor’s visits. Now that both Hubby and I are retired, I can testify that it is not true. The highlight of our day is when we find our car in a parking lot. However, doctors’ visits are definitely on the list of things we and many other retirees do that helps fill the hours of the day. Believe me it is not by choice. I am beginning to think that some doctors believe old folks love the decorations in their offices so much they permit patients to sit there from one to three hours in order to have time to fully enjoy each masterpiece. Sometimes I wonder if the doctors have an “interest” in the sellers of the artwork on their office walls and that is the real reason they have us sitting for so long. Are they really subjecting their patients to subliminal advertising for the mass produced artwork that adorns the office walls? If they are, it works. Many people – including me – have similar scenes hanging in our home to the artwork in the examining rooms.
I know all the excuses for the wait, and since the doctors I see do spend time with me, I don’t complain. I’ve learned to pack snack for Hubby and me so our blood sugar doesn’t drop and cause dizzy spells. Because of normal aging health problems, doctors’ visits are now a frequent activity in our daily schedule. But, because we are retired, when we leave the doctor’s office, we don’t have to head to work for the rest of the day. Instead, we can head to play at whatever we feel like doing!
I know all the excuses for the wait, and since the doctors I see do spend time with me, I don’t complain. I’ve learned to pack snack for Hubby and me so our blood sugar doesn’t drop and cause dizzy spells. Because of normal aging health problems, doctors’ visits are now a frequent activity in our daily schedule. But, because we are retired, when we leave the doctor’s office, we don’t have to head to work for the rest of the day. Instead, we can head to play at whatever we feel like doing!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
If the Shoe Doesn't Fit
Besides deciding what color to paint the wall, the other decisions that are causing me stress since we moved to Senior Paradise are what to wear when I meet the neighbors. I am one of those people that need to feel I “fit in” to the dress code of the evening. If everyone shows in kakis and Hubby and I are wearing jeans, I will feel ill at ease.
The other night, we were invited to attend a social event in the clubhouse of our complex. We opted for kaki casual. Shoes for Hubby were no problem, but for me it was a major clamity. Since the carton containing most of my casual shoes has not been unpacked, my choice was limited. I opted for a pair of backless, low heels that were in easy reach. I usually only wear them if I know I will be sitting all evening. As soon as I entered the room, my eyes fixated on the women’s shoes: stylish sandals with cushioned soles – not a pinched toe in the room.
I wobbled to my table, my armed locked in my husband’s for balance. While we watched the show, I felt relieved to finally be in a paradise where if the shoe doesn’t fit, I no longer have to wear it!
The other night, we were invited to attend a social event in the clubhouse of our complex. We opted for kaki casual. Shoes for Hubby were no problem, but for me it was a major clamity. Since the carton containing most of my casual shoes has not been unpacked, my choice was limited. I opted for a pair of backless, low heels that were in easy reach. I usually only wear them if I know I will be sitting all evening. As soon as I entered the room, my eyes fixated on the women’s shoes: stylish sandals with cushioned soles – not a pinched toe in the room.
I wobbled to my table, my armed locked in my husband’s for balance. While we watched the show, I felt relieved to finally be in a paradise where if the shoe doesn’t fit, I no longer have to wear it!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Moving Snafus
Our move to Senior Utopia would have been perfect if it wasn’t for modern technology. First, we had to cancel our move because the bank that lent the buyers of our old home wired the money to the wrong title company. It took two days to discover where a few hundred thousand was hiding. Fortunately, the closing of our new home was dependant on the closing of our old home – something our son, the lawyer, insisted. “Unless you want to own two homes, you better make sure you have that clause in your contract.”
Tis wise to have the advice of wise lawyers when dealing with banks today.
The banks played more games even after they rewired the money. When the money finally arrived three days later, the title company hand delivered a check to the title company of our new home to make sure the money didn’t get held up again and cause us to have to cancel our move the second time.
Other than the usual decisions that drive me to eat – picking out paint colors and window coverings – the only big snag we have is with Comcast. We used Comcast for email in our other home and incorrectly ASSumed that our email addresses would make the trip with us. We were even told that by a Comcast employee whose name we foolishly never wrote down. Unfortunately, that is not true and this week Comcast informed us it could take up to 90 days to find our emails in cyberspace, send them to me, and have my email working again with my usual email names. Did anyone ever think it would take modern technology more time to transfer emails than the Pony Express needed to go from coast to coast????????
Help!
Tis wise to have the advice of wise lawyers when dealing with banks today.
The banks played more games even after they rewired the money. When the money finally arrived three days later, the title company hand delivered a check to the title company of our new home to make sure the money didn’t get held up again and cause us to have to cancel our move the second time.
Other than the usual decisions that drive me to eat – picking out paint colors and window coverings – the only big snag we have is with Comcast. We used Comcast for email in our other home and incorrectly ASSumed that our email addresses would make the trip with us. We were even told that by a Comcast employee whose name we foolishly never wrote down. Unfortunately, that is not true and this week Comcast informed us it could take up to 90 days to find our emails in cyberspace, send them to me, and have my email working again with my usual email names. Did anyone ever think it would take modern technology more time to transfer emails than the Pony Express needed to go from coast to coast????????
Help!
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