“Cool” said youngest grandchild, when I told him his Papa and I were going to a party at our clubhouse pool. His voice had the tinge of surprise and maybe I read into, but a bit of “huh” in it also. Was he having a visual image of me diving to the bottom picking up coins or perhaps I would be on his Papa’s shoulders doing a game I can’t quite remember the name of and have no clue if it is still played by today’s youth.
Try as hard as he could, he would never have imagined what his Papa and “Bub”—short for Bubbie—did that afternoon. In fact, neither did we.
Usually music by the pool in my active senior community means ACTIVE seniors either singing along with music while other folks prefer to dance—in the pool or poolside. Some choose to sit far from the “action” and chat and leave the active participation to those who’ve already had their successful knee and/or hip replacement surgeries. The pool area resembles the deck of a cruise ship while at sea. Something for everyone.
Recently, ‘twas a bit different. The rule saying that only water in plastic containers could be in the pool area was put on hold for the festivities. Non-alcoholic smoothies were offered, and, if they so desired, folks could bring ingredients to spice up the smoothie. For many of us whose meds still allow us to indulge, rum or other liquor was added to our fruit drinks.
So picture white-haired Hubby and me, poolside, a cool breeze coming across the manmade lake, great music, sipping rum drinks with many neighbors. One svelte, well-tanned woman, bedecked in a size small bathing suit, with an accompanying sarong that actually covered all of her thighs—when it stayed tied—quickly became the center of attention. Men smiled at her antics, women put towels over their legs.
The unexpected entertainer wanted to dance with everyone or anyone who came within arm’s reach. I’ll not say she was inebriated because one drink is all I need to be relaxed and silly. I prefer to say she was very, very happy and her happiness was infectious. Her goal to have everyone join her on the dance floor was made easy because the dancing area was right next to where the smoothies were being served.
One by one, as unsuspecting folks approached the smoothie station, they found themselves whirled around the floor for a few moments—unless of course they enjoyed the adventure. Some people did while others fled as soon as they saw an escape. Not sure what either of these reactions indicate, but I wondered if any of these antics was in my grandson’s visual image of what “old people” do at a pool party. While folks danced, Hubby snapped picture after picture. When he stepped into the dancer’s personal space, she reached for his butt.
He told her he was married. She said she didn’t care. When he dared to say that if she didn’t, he didn’t, the little bit of rum in my system prompted me call out, “I do.”
Hubby said she did grab his tush before he pulled away. I have my doubts his rear felt a thing. He has no butt. Never did. Maybe she grabbed his cell phone, which was in his rear pocket, but it sure wasn’t his butt. It doesn’t matter. The experience gave him bragging rights when he retold the story—accompanied by pictures—to friends. Now I’m wondering, should I show the pictures to the grandkids?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Cost VS Worth
Other than when Hubby needs suits or shoes or I’m totally disabled, he avoids shopping like a plague with two exceptions—bulk food and Home Depot-like stores. Unlike me, he hasn’t changed size since we were married almost fifty years ago, so I’ve learned if I want him to look presentable, I need to do the shopping. To him as long as his clothes are clean, fashion is irrelevant.
Even though I’m not a lover of oversized garage-like box stores as he is, since I’m the cook and he’s the “lugger,” this is the only kind of store you’ll find us both in at the same time. The other day my cell phone rang. “Can you talk?” the voice at the other end asked.
“I’ll be tied up for at least two hours,” I answered. “Can it wait?”
“Where are you?”
“COSTCO—with Hubby.”
My friend laughed. She’s heard my rants about shopping not being a couples activity for my husband and me, and how instead of taking at most a half hour, when I’m with my spouse, shopping can be two hours. He likes to read labels and examine every item on display even if we have no need for it. I’m convinced the super garage-like ambiance is intentionally designed to attract anti-shoppers like Hubby. They know if clothes are displayed like tires, a man will look and even do impulse shopping.
My husband, who will shop in the local supermarket when I can’t, remembers what each item we buy on a regular basis costs. Thus, he likes to point out how much money we save when we buy in bulk, such as a year’s supply of paper towels. Through the years, we’ve learned that bulk is not always the best deal. After having some items ferment in the closet or turn green in the refrigerator, Hubby now checks the expiration dates before he puts a package of cheese that will last six months in the wagon.
For the past few years I’ve been complaining that the weight of the laundry and dishwasher containers is more than I can physically handle. My words went unheeded until a few months ago when my husband was recovering from back problems. The look on his face in the store when I told him we needed bleach, laundry and dishwasher soap told me he feared they were too heavy for his now fragile back. The bargain was too much for him to pass up as I advised him to do, so he asked a nice young man who was nearby to put the oversized boxes of into our wagon. Another person offered to help us load our car—an advantage to looking old is if there are lots of nice young folks nearby, one will offer a hand. However, none lives with us. When we got home, I refused to help lift them out of the car trunk. “I told you in the store I can’t pick it up. You’re on your own.”
Hubby winced with pain when he lifted the two humungous bottles of bleach. “You’re right,” he said after straightening out with great effort. Then he dragged the carton across the garage. “Never again. The savings isn’t worth it.”
Out of pity—after all he admitted I was right and what more can any wife want—but more importantly no desire to visit the emergency room, together we lugged the other dead-weighted items inside the house. To make sure he wouldn’t forget his proclamation, for the next several weeks I had him pour the soap into the dishwasher until that backbreaking container was reduced to a weight I could handle without needing to lie on heat for an hour afterwards.
Recently we went shopping for goodies we needed for the non-barbeque barbeque we were hosting. (I cook the food before hand because too many barbeques have been rained out, and in Florida May heat neither of us enjoys standing over hot flames to cook.) As we strolled up and down the aisles with the crackers and other items we needed, Hubby put box after box into the wagon. The wagon looked as if we were entertaining 40 and not 14. I pointed this out to him, but he retorted that the food “would last forever” and more importantly, we were saving money. Finally, I asked him where we were going to put all of his oversized non-perishable purchases.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me while placing a years worth of individual applesauce cups on top of the crackers, pretzels, nuts, and chips, “I’ll rearrange your pantry to hold it all.”
He kept his promise. He packed my pantry tighter than a can of sardines with more than half of the items hidden from view. When done, he asked what was for lunch.
“Tuna,” I said. “As long as you take out the can and find the mayo.”
My gut feeling is my husband’s love affair with excessively large quantities of food that don’t get used up quickly is over. Cost is not always worth, and that’s his saying, not mine!
Even though I’m not a lover of oversized garage-like box stores as he is, since I’m the cook and he’s the “lugger,” this is the only kind of store you’ll find us both in at the same time. The other day my cell phone rang. “Can you talk?” the voice at the other end asked.
“I’ll be tied up for at least two hours,” I answered. “Can it wait?”
“Where are you?”
“COSTCO—with Hubby.”
My friend laughed. She’s heard my rants about shopping not being a couples activity for my husband and me, and how instead of taking at most a half hour, when I’m with my spouse, shopping can be two hours. He likes to read labels and examine every item on display even if we have no need for it. I’m convinced the super garage-like ambiance is intentionally designed to attract anti-shoppers like Hubby. They know if clothes are displayed like tires, a man will look and even do impulse shopping.
My husband, who will shop in the local supermarket when I can’t, remembers what each item we buy on a regular basis costs. Thus, he likes to point out how much money we save when we buy in bulk, such as a year’s supply of paper towels. Through the years, we’ve learned that bulk is not always the best deal. After having some items ferment in the closet or turn green in the refrigerator, Hubby now checks the expiration dates before he puts a package of cheese that will last six months in the wagon.
For the past few years I’ve been complaining that the weight of the laundry and dishwasher containers is more than I can physically handle. My words went unheeded until a few months ago when my husband was recovering from back problems. The look on his face in the store when I told him we needed bleach, laundry and dishwasher soap told me he feared they were too heavy for his now fragile back. The bargain was too much for him to pass up as I advised him to do, so he asked a nice young man who was nearby to put the oversized boxes of into our wagon. Another person offered to help us load our car—an advantage to looking old is if there are lots of nice young folks nearby, one will offer a hand. However, none lives with us. When we got home, I refused to help lift them out of the car trunk. “I told you in the store I can’t pick it up. You’re on your own.”
Hubby winced with pain when he lifted the two humungous bottles of bleach. “You’re right,” he said after straightening out with great effort. Then he dragged the carton across the garage. “Never again. The savings isn’t worth it.”
Out of pity—after all he admitted I was right and what more can any wife want—but more importantly no desire to visit the emergency room, together we lugged the other dead-weighted items inside the house. To make sure he wouldn’t forget his proclamation, for the next several weeks I had him pour the soap into the dishwasher until that backbreaking container was reduced to a weight I could handle without needing to lie on heat for an hour afterwards.
Recently we went shopping for goodies we needed for the non-barbeque barbeque we were hosting. (I cook the food before hand because too many barbeques have been rained out, and in Florida May heat neither of us enjoys standing over hot flames to cook.) As we strolled up and down the aisles with the crackers and other items we needed, Hubby put box after box into the wagon. The wagon looked as if we were entertaining 40 and not 14. I pointed this out to him, but he retorted that the food “would last forever” and more importantly, we were saving money. Finally, I asked him where we were going to put all of his oversized non-perishable purchases.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me while placing a years worth of individual applesauce cups on top of the crackers, pretzels, nuts, and chips, “I’ll rearrange your pantry to hold it all.”
He kept his promise. He packed my pantry tighter than a can of sardines with more than half of the items hidden from view. When done, he asked what was for lunch.
“Tuna,” I said. “As long as you take out the can and find the mayo.”
My gut feeling is my husband’s love affair with excessively large quantities of food that don’t get used up quickly is over. Cost is not always worth, and that’s his saying, not mine!
Friday, May 13, 2011
Say Cheese
Active Adult Committees have the ability to make or break a doctor’s reputation. If a doctor falls out of favor with a patient, word spreads quickly from the tennis courts to the card rooms. Conversely, if miracles happen and a doctor restores health to someone near death, that word spreads like lightening also.
Recently, during lunch in the clubhouse cafe, I was telling my friends that Hubby was going to have cataract surgery on both eyes. Someone at the next table overheard. Since I’m still considered new in this area, she felt it was her assigned duty to inform me who the “biggest” doctor in town is.
To me, a big doctor is one who needs to shed over 100 pounds, but I didn’t think she’d smile if I asked her how heavy her doctor was. Instead, I politely thanked her for her unsolicited advice—something common in Seniorviles and believe it or not, more helpful than not. I told her I preferred the specialist who did mine several years ago. Others within earshot responded with horror and disbelief that I was going to travel 25 minutes—an overnight trip to some folks in my environ—when there were so many “big” doctors within ten minutes.
For reasons unknown to me, maven number one seemed upset I was not willing to switch to someone “two minutes from here who always has perfect results.” She confided what she thought was an important tidbit of information, meant to prevent Hubby from a botched job. “You know he (my doctor) never does the surgery. The doctors who work for him do the procedure.”
I knew her concern was real and wanted to reassure her we were in good hands. I told her he successfully operated on both my eyes several years ago and recently restored vision to a friend who had her surgery done incorrectly elsewhere. Her red face and stiffened body posture was a sign she didn’t agree with my decision.
The morning of Hubby’s surgery, I went to the area in the outpatient clinic where several closed circuit televisions were set up so those interested could see the doctor at work. Hubby did this during my procedure years ago. (Permission to film the procedure was signed in advance.) I began to watch the operation, gagged, and went to the other end of the room to watch live news.
The surgery was the morning after bin Laden was killed. Even if the story on TV was of less importance, sucking a lens out of any eye and inserting another is not my “thing,” even if it is Hubby’s baby-blues on the screen. Occasionally I glanced at the closed circuit TV screen to check Hubby’s status. I knew when the doctor was done because Hubby had forewarned a camera flash would go off. For some weird reason, this doc takes a picture with his patient when the surgery is over, and then he waves to his unseen audience. The next day, during the post op visit, the patient receives a copy of the picture.
When Hubby went for his post op visit right, he was given the gruesome photo along with a DVD of the surgery. Since I knew I would dump the photo as I did mine and never view the DVD, I asked the nurse not to waste time snapping the picture when his second eye was operated on.
“Never,” she said. “By seeing the picture, patients can be reassured that the doctor did the surgery.”
I thought back to the false accusation that I had heard about my eye surgeon and decided to show the photo to the doctor maven in my development. His reason for the photo-op suddenly made a great deal of sense. Then a thought hit me like a ton of bricks. I am so glad the doctor who does my colonoscopy doesn’t have the same problem proving to patients he really does the procedure.
Recently, during lunch in the clubhouse cafe, I was telling my friends that Hubby was going to have cataract surgery on both eyes. Someone at the next table overheard. Since I’m still considered new in this area, she felt it was her assigned duty to inform me who the “biggest” doctor in town is.
To me, a big doctor is one who needs to shed over 100 pounds, but I didn’t think she’d smile if I asked her how heavy her doctor was. Instead, I politely thanked her for her unsolicited advice—something common in Seniorviles and believe it or not, more helpful than not. I told her I preferred the specialist who did mine several years ago. Others within earshot responded with horror and disbelief that I was going to travel 25 minutes—an overnight trip to some folks in my environ—when there were so many “big” doctors within ten minutes.
For reasons unknown to me, maven number one seemed upset I was not willing to switch to someone “two minutes from here who always has perfect results.” She confided what she thought was an important tidbit of information, meant to prevent Hubby from a botched job. “You know he (my doctor) never does the surgery. The doctors who work for him do the procedure.”
I knew her concern was real and wanted to reassure her we were in good hands. I told her he successfully operated on both my eyes several years ago and recently restored vision to a friend who had her surgery done incorrectly elsewhere. Her red face and stiffened body posture was a sign she didn’t agree with my decision.
The morning of Hubby’s surgery, I went to the area in the outpatient clinic where several closed circuit televisions were set up so those interested could see the doctor at work. Hubby did this during my procedure years ago. (Permission to film the procedure was signed in advance.) I began to watch the operation, gagged, and went to the other end of the room to watch live news.
The surgery was the morning after bin Laden was killed. Even if the story on TV was of less importance, sucking a lens out of any eye and inserting another is not my “thing,” even if it is Hubby’s baby-blues on the screen. Occasionally I glanced at the closed circuit TV screen to check Hubby’s status. I knew when the doctor was done because Hubby had forewarned a camera flash would go off. For some weird reason, this doc takes a picture with his patient when the surgery is over, and then he waves to his unseen audience. The next day, during the post op visit, the patient receives a copy of the picture.
When Hubby went for his post op visit right, he was given the gruesome photo along with a DVD of the surgery. Since I knew I would dump the photo as I did mine and never view the DVD, I asked the nurse not to waste time snapping the picture when his second eye was operated on.
“Never,” she said. “By seeing the picture, patients can be reassured that the doctor did the surgery.”
I thought back to the false accusation that I had heard about my eye surgeon and decided to show the photo to the doctor maven in my development. His reason for the photo-op suddenly made a great deal of sense. Then a thought hit me like a ton of bricks. I am so glad the doctor who does my colonoscopy doesn’t have the same problem proving to patients he really does the procedure.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Glass Houses
“I have a fantasy,” my husband said recently, “that we can leave the house without you having to spend half an hour looking for your glasses, your keys, or your handbag.”
The missing keys and purse have been causing me grief for years. While I search for the eluding article, I keep repeating to myself something Atlanta son says, “Matter doesn’t disappear,” and Hubby keeps reminding me I have to focus on what I am doing. Experience has taught me that if I keep retracing my steps, eventually the missing item magically appears.
My problems with misplaced specs started after my cataract surgery about four years ago. Since this procedure, I only need glasses for reading. Before my surgery, I wore glasses 24/7 therefore, I only took them off to sleep or shower. Post surgery, I tried the string on the earpieces and let them dangle from my neck when not in use, but the string irritated my skin. Now I have the bad habit of just leaving them the last place I needed to wear them. If glasses were available with the same gadget that I press to let me know where I parked my car, I would buy the gizmo ASAP, regardless of cost. (If any of you know of such a device, let me know:).
Now to the gut of this blog. Hubby had cataract surgery this past Monday on one eye. He gets the other one done next week. In the meantime, his old glasses are useless and he has a definite depth perception problem. Last night, at dinner, he accidentally knocked over his water, drenching himself. I mopped, and he changed.
Since the surgery, he can see clearly out of his operated eye, but, like me, only needs glasses to read. Yesterday, I gave him one of the several store bought glasses I keep in various rooms to use to read when I can’t find my good ones—the ones that correct my distance stigmatism (for driving), and have progressive lens, which I prefer for computer work.
This morning, as the sun was rising in the east and we were getting ready for our early morning walk, Hubby came into the kitchen and said, “My wallet isn’t in the jeans I wore yesterday.” He was visibly upset.
Could Mr. I Never Misplace Anything handle evidence that he was a mere mortal like me, and when he is tired, he forgets simple things like changing out of wet clothes into dry ones? I was enjoying the moment. I didn’t point out that he had to concentrate more on what he was doing or any of the other bits of wisdom he gives me while I frantically search for glasses atop of my head. I had a better plan. Instead, I simply went into the bedroom, picked up the shorts he had changed into last night, brought them into the kitchen, put my hand in the pocket, and . . . voila! Mr. Organized, Mr. I Always Know Where My Things Are, fell off his pedestal and turned red. He plopped into his chair, picked up the morning newspaper, and stared at it. Then he coughed, looked at me, and said, laughing all the while, “I can’t find my reading glasses either.”
I guess everyone lives in a glass house, but sometimes the dwellers don’t know it until the curtains are opened. Welcome to the “Did you see my reading glasses?” world, Hubby dearest. Now our biggest problem will be whose wearing whose glasses, and I hope that that remains our biggest problem. Then life will be good, as long as one of us knows where the car keys are.
The missing keys and purse have been causing me grief for years. While I search for the eluding article, I keep repeating to myself something Atlanta son says, “Matter doesn’t disappear,” and Hubby keeps reminding me I have to focus on what I am doing. Experience has taught me that if I keep retracing my steps, eventually the missing item magically appears.
My problems with misplaced specs started after my cataract surgery about four years ago. Since this procedure, I only need glasses for reading. Before my surgery, I wore glasses 24/7 therefore, I only took them off to sleep or shower. Post surgery, I tried the string on the earpieces and let them dangle from my neck when not in use, but the string irritated my skin. Now I have the bad habit of just leaving them the last place I needed to wear them. If glasses were available with the same gadget that I press to let me know where I parked my car, I would buy the gizmo ASAP, regardless of cost. (If any of you know of such a device, let me know:).
Now to the gut of this blog. Hubby had cataract surgery this past Monday on one eye. He gets the other one done next week. In the meantime, his old glasses are useless and he has a definite depth perception problem. Last night, at dinner, he accidentally knocked over his water, drenching himself. I mopped, and he changed.
Since the surgery, he can see clearly out of his operated eye, but, like me, only needs glasses to read. Yesterday, I gave him one of the several store bought glasses I keep in various rooms to use to read when I can’t find my good ones—the ones that correct my distance stigmatism (for driving), and have progressive lens, which I prefer for computer work.
This morning, as the sun was rising in the east and we were getting ready for our early morning walk, Hubby came into the kitchen and said, “My wallet isn’t in the jeans I wore yesterday.” He was visibly upset.
Could Mr. I Never Misplace Anything handle evidence that he was a mere mortal like me, and when he is tired, he forgets simple things like changing out of wet clothes into dry ones? I was enjoying the moment. I didn’t point out that he had to concentrate more on what he was doing or any of the other bits of wisdom he gives me while I frantically search for glasses atop of my head. I had a better plan. Instead, I simply went into the bedroom, picked up the shorts he had changed into last night, brought them into the kitchen, put my hand in the pocket, and . . . voila! Mr. Organized, Mr. I Always Know Where My Things Are, fell off his pedestal and turned red. He plopped into his chair, picked up the morning newspaper, and stared at it. Then he coughed, looked at me, and said, laughing all the while, “I can’t find my reading glasses either.”
I guess everyone lives in a glass house, but sometimes the dwellers don’t know it until the curtains are opened. Welcome to the “Did you see my reading glasses?” world, Hubby dearest. Now our biggest problem will be whose wearing whose glasses, and I hope that that remains our biggest problem. Then life will be good, as long as one of us knows where the car keys are.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Paper Boy AKA Flat Stanley
I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Flat Stanley. He’s a children’s book character that resembles a cut out gingerbread cookie. I call him Paper Boy. Teachers have their primary grade students send multiple Paper Boys in envelopes to recipients who student’s parents know love the pupil. For a said period of time, these selected “guardians” will go to any extreme to make the children happy, have a camera, and will be willing to take Paper Boy with them no matter where they go and snap away. After the “vacation” is over, Paper Boy and pictures are returned to the teacher.
I spent enough years in front of a classroom to know Paper Boy’s travels are probably a great way to teach creative writing and/or geography. If my grandchild had sent me Paper Boy, I would follow the rules to a “T.” “T” stands for time. I learned when my sons were little, only their grandparents had unlimited time and patience for projects like Paper Boy. Nothing has changed. After one or two anecdotes, most other adults want to switch back to “business on hand.”
The first time I met Paper Boy, a friend had brought him to a women’s luncheon. After ten minutes of enduring Paper Boy’s caretaker posing him with each of us, and then making us snap pictures while she “fed” her charge, the women seated with me began to gently kick or poke each other under the table. Our attention had definitely waned. In the polite world, if Grandma doesn’t get the hint while she’s monopolizing the conversation about her brilliant offspring, the rest of us sit with Botox like smiles on our face while suppressing a yawn.
Fast forward five years. Paper Boy is once again making his rounds of South Florida. Thankfully, unlike the other Grammy, this new Gram obeys the unofficial “talking about your grandkid’s” time limit rule. After spending a few, and I mean few, minutes building Mah Jongg tiles like blocks, Paper Boy was tucked neatly into the side of Gram’s bag where he “napped” for the entire afternoon. Because he was so well behaved and didn’t annoy her peers the first time she brought him along, Gram let him come to a special birthday celebration held at a very, very well known Palm Beach Country Club last week. The doormen smiled as Paper Boy was posed at the entrance next to the name on the door. The hot son must have tired Paper Boy because he immediately wanted to nap in Gram’s oversized purse. After lunch, we toured the estate. The men’s room door was open (for cleaning), and the john, complete with gold plated plumbing, was quite visibly empty. This was a good thing because that’s when Paper Boy awoke and needed to “go.” The kind maintenance man let him use the facilities. A picture was snapped of Paper Boy standing at the urinal.
Now will said Grandma have the courage to send an “indecent” picture back with all the other ones she took showing how eclectic her life in Seniorville is? As of this writing, the retired teacher inside of her says it might cause her to be put in Grammy time-out for kind of making fun of a worthwhile project. What do you think?
I spent enough years in front of a classroom to know Paper Boy’s travels are probably a great way to teach creative writing and/or geography. If my grandchild had sent me Paper Boy, I would follow the rules to a “T.” “T” stands for time. I learned when my sons were little, only their grandparents had unlimited time and patience for projects like Paper Boy. Nothing has changed. After one or two anecdotes, most other adults want to switch back to “business on hand.”
The first time I met Paper Boy, a friend had brought him to a women’s luncheon. After ten minutes of enduring Paper Boy’s caretaker posing him with each of us, and then making us snap pictures while she “fed” her charge, the women seated with me began to gently kick or poke each other under the table. Our attention had definitely waned. In the polite world, if Grandma doesn’t get the hint while she’s monopolizing the conversation about her brilliant offspring, the rest of us sit with Botox like smiles on our face while suppressing a yawn.
Fast forward five years. Paper Boy is once again making his rounds of South Florida. Thankfully, unlike the other Grammy, this new Gram obeys the unofficial “talking about your grandkid’s” time limit rule. After spending a few, and I mean few, minutes building Mah Jongg tiles like blocks, Paper Boy was tucked neatly into the side of Gram’s bag where he “napped” for the entire afternoon. Because he was so well behaved and didn’t annoy her peers the first time she brought him along, Gram let him come to a special birthday celebration held at a very, very well known Palm Beach Country Club last week. The doormen smiled as Paper Boy was posed at the entrance next to the name on the door. The hot son must have tired Paper Boy because he immediately wanted to nap in Gram’s oversized purse. After lunch, we toured the estate. The men’s room door was open (for cleaning), and the john, complete with gold plated plumbing, was quite visibly empty. This was a good thing because that’s when Paper Boy awoke and needed to “go.” The kind maintenance man let him use the facilities. A picture was snapped of Paper Boy standing at the urinal.
Now will said Grandma have the courage to send an “indecent” picture back with all the other ones she took showing how eclectic her life in Seniorville is? As of this writing, the retired teacher inside of her says it might cause her to be put in Grammy time-out for kind of making fun of a worthwhile project. What do you think?
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Fear Facto
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)