Allie the Alligator

Before relocating to South Florida in 1973, I assumed that wild-life other than assorted birds and earth worms lived in zoos just like in NYC. I never saw a live snake slithering anywhere I lived in New York with the exception of my childhood summers spent in the Catskill Mountains. It wasn’t until after we moved to West Broward in South Florida and I was greeted by a rat snake on my walkway that I realized my new home was, according to the map, in the Everglades. As far as the natives, meaning snakes, assorted lizards, humongous frogs, and the grandest Everglades’ beast of them all, the alligators, were concerned, I was poaching on their turf, and they weren’t relocating.

            Shortly after moving into our home, my then young sons came running into the house screaming, “There’s an alligator in the storm sewer.”                 

After visual confirmation of what I hoped was a prank, I called 911. I was told not to stress because the “gator” would find its way back through the drainage pipe into the lake opposite my home. Because this beautiful body of water was really part of the South Florida Water (Everglades?) system, it is home to beasts that liked humans for snacks. Experts assured me that the chance of Allie the Alligator leaving the lake and crossing my neighbor’s property and then the street to my front door was slim. However, my lush greenery was home to the other Everglades inhabitants like possums and snakes. During one hurricane, my husband and I sat safely in our living room and watched in horror as the wind blew snakes out of the Areca palms that lined our property.

It took about 10 years for me not to care if a lizard dashed in through an open door. They don’t bite and are more afraid of me than I them. Also, they usually die within a day. If a small frog invades, and I hope I don’t gross you, I put a plastic cup over it. The next day I use corn prongs to remove the almost lifeless creature and toss it onto the grass.

            Whenever I see a snake near my house, I head to the supermarket and buy boxes of good old moth balls. Google says they are the same as snake repellant products and much cheaper. I sprinkle the balls around all my entrances and throughout the garage. Friends know that if they approach my home and smell the camphor, I spotted a snake on my property.

The active-senior community where I now live, about 40 miles north of our first Florida home, is near two nature preserves. Many of the retirees who are from northern cities incorrectly believe all the alligators in this area of Palm Beach reside in those two locations. Neighbors who fish in our man-made lakes claim they have seen small gators. As of yet, I haven’t spotted one, but you’ll never catch me walking near the water.

Unlike my previous home, my present home is on a lake (that is also part of the same system linked to the “real” Everglades). The first time my Atlanta family came to visit, my grandson tied his dog to the palm tree near the lake so it would not wander.  His father, who was sitting on the patio, sang, “alligator bait” repeatedly. My grandson has two parents raised in South Florida. He needed no explanation of his father’s song. The pet was quickly brought into the screened area.

            Recently my granddaughter visited me during her spring break from college.  She likes to jog at night.  We have guard gates, and supposedly it is safe for young girls to jog alone in our community, but I always worry about potential danger. My heart rate soared until she returned and immediately informed me the jogging path was filled with walkers and joggers. She knows of my propensity for worrying for what is supposedly “nothing.”

            The next morning an email came from our property manager with a picture taken around sunrise that day of a 6- 8 foot alligator. It was in the middle of the main road that borders our jogging trail—the very trail that my granddaughter was on just a few hours before.  As of yet, Allie the Alligator hasn’t eaten the bait in the trap that has been set. However, my granddaughter did her evening workouts in the gym for the rest of her stay. Who would have thought an alligator would reduce my stress!  

Electronically Challenged

 

I was one of the last of my peers to buy a Smartphone. When I posted the news of my purchase on Facebook almost two-years ago, my Atlanta son who never comments on my stream but monitors my posts for my infamous spelling errors, wrote, “Return it IMMEDIATELY.”

            Those friends who didn’t know of my total lack of fine motor and electronic skills as he did, objected. One wrote, “I’m ten-years older than your mom, and if I can learn how to use it, so can she.”

Unlike them, my son also knew I didn’t read directions that showed anything more than the location of the on/off switch. Almost two years later, I will admit I’ve only mastered a few features, so my son and friends were both partially correct. I can take pictures—sometimes—and then post them on Facebook, a socially acceptable way to brag because here friends can ignore the post if they chose or hit “like” if they truly care.

It took almost one year to learn how to enter phone numbers, but I still can’t delete old ones even though I have even been shown twice. I’ve learned how to text, but only individuals, but I can send one email to multiple people.  I still have yet to activate the phone’s voice and probably never will. If the computer that types my dictated text or email can’t understand me, I’m not sure it is worthwhile to turn on the voice feature. This morning when composing an email, I said “all okay” into the phone’s microphone; however, “ooo k” appeared on my screen.

            My husband and I bought the car I am driving before we purchased our cell phones. Our dinosaur phones were compatible with the car’s Bluetooth device. They worked faithfully, and the driver’s phone was automatically connected. Not so with our new phones. Keeping them connected was like attempting to stand still while inside of a revolving door. The phones somehow adversely affected our navigation system. We were making more trips to the dealer than the doctors—and neither is a great way to spend the day. After replacing three car radios—thankfully under warrantee—one mechanic at the dealership finally found the cause of the problem. My husband’s cell phone, a Window’s model, was incompatible with the car’s radio/Bluetooth/navigation system. The mechanic then disconnected my husband’s phone from our car’s Bluetooth device. Hubby looked as if someone told him he could no longer have permanent custody of our television’s remote.

As soon as we were home, he researched and found out no “cure” was available for his phone’s incompatibility problem. Hubby had no choice but to remain “bluetoothless” until our cell phone contract was up.

Ironically, even though his phone is disconnected, somehow when he is behind the wheel, the screen on the navigational system/radio keeps changing. Even worse, my phone is automatically disconnected. It makes me wonder if electronic devices can be haunted by bad electronic memories.

 I have mastered the Words With Friends app, but the music and communication apps frustrate me. Once I had the music on, I had so much trouble turning it off, I never used it again. Our alarm clock broke, and I attempted to use the one on the cell phone. It actually worked the first time, but not the second. No clue what I did wrong, and since we almost missed an early morning appointment, I bought a new, old-fashioned alarm clock.

Recently, I took the reading list for my community’s Book Club to the library only to discover that most of the books were on hold, or they didn’t stock them. The librarian said some of them might be available to check out electronically. I thanked her, too embarrassed to say that I didn’t own a Kindle.

I drove home thinking that perhaps it was time I purchased an electronic reader, after all, “everyone” else I knew swore by the electronic books. My fear of not being able to learn how to use one was preventing me from partaking in Book Club.  “After all,” I said to myself, “I am learning to use my phone—slowly, yet learning.”

That night, after researching on Google, I decided to purchase the Kindle with the fewest gadgets and did so the next day. 

I would like to say I have mastered al the in's and out's of using the Kindle, I would like to ....but can't. Give me another year and I'll let you know.

Hometown? Hm

           

            “Where are you from?” my neighbor asked my visiting cousin.

           “How far back do you want me to go?” he responded.

             My cousin lived in three states before settling in the Midwest about 50-years ago. So where is he from—the city listed on his birth certificate or the place he lived most of his life?  Living parts of your life in multiple geographic areas is quite the norm for many folks, including me. Today my knee-jerk response to the “where are you from” question is “South Florida,” but obviously once someone hears me say “worta” instead of “water”, they know it wasn’t always that way.

In the late 1960’s, my husband and I moved from Queens, New York to the same area on eastern Long Island as my brother. A new, mutual friend of ours looked puzzled when I told him I was from Queens.
            “But your brother is from Brooklyn,” he said. “Didn’t you live together?”  

            Big Bro was ready for college when our family relocated to Queens, but I still was in grade school. My earliest vivid memories take place in Queens, my brother’s in Brooklyn. Hence our very different responses to, “Where’re ya from?”
            My husband and I moved to Plantation, a city in South Florida in 1973 along with our two young children, so I’ve lived here for well over half of my life. Our sons were raised there, and I collect a Florida teacher’s pension. I haven’t thought of myself as a New Yorker in decades. A few years ago, a comic who entertained in my “seniorville”—a community made up of probably 90% or more transplants from northern states—justified my current response as to my hometown.  
            “You’re a native Floridian,” the performer told his audience of retirees,” if you were here before ninety-five.”
            The “natives” in the audience howled because we realized he was referring to I-95, not someone’s age. The bulk of the audience in my over-55 community, relative newcomers to Florida, had a blank look on their faces. They were clueless that I-95 wasn’t completed thus connecting our area to the rest of the highway until the late 1980’s. 

            Shortly after we moved to Florida, years before Google Maps or a GPS, we asked a new neighbor for directions to a museum in Miami. “Can you drive on a highway?” the person asked.

            After my husband nodded, our neighbor advised us that our destination was very far—almost an hour’s drive. My husband replied—without cracking a smile—that he felt our family could handle the excursion.

That day I learned two interesting things about most of our new neighbors with respect to road travel. First, only those few who learned to drive on highways or parkways on an almost daily basis didn’t fear getting mowed down by a tractor trailer while merging onto I-95. My driving skills were honed on The Interboro, a narrow, curvy road connecting Brooklyn and Queens. Hubby received his training on the roads and bridges connecting the Bronx with the rest of the city.

Second, I became aware of the fact that to many people living in Florida a long time, anything more than 45-minutes in a car each way constituted an over-night trip to people who didn’t grow up spending half of their Sundays in traffic to and fro visiting relatives 50 miles away.

Forty years later, neither my husband’s nor my driving outlooks have budged. However, even though we insist our hometown is Plantation, we credit the city of our birth with giving us the skills needed to drive on South Florida’s highways, especially the fifty-mile trip from Palm Beach to Miami. We have no trouble crossing— in less than a mile—the five lanes at the southern end of the Florida Turnpike which lets us then merge onto I-95 South and then immediately cross five more lanes and enter the express lanes without either of us going into cardiac arrest.

Google It

Almost ten years ago, my critique group, (writers who edit each other’s works), had just finished reading a chapter in my manuscript.  “You wrote that snakes sleep at night as part of the dialogue. Is that true?” a well-published author questioned.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The words suited the situation, so I used them.”

“You can’t give misinformation especially in children’s’ books,” she warned. Her next words didn’t exist when I was teaching a few years prior. She said, “Google it.”

 In the early 1990’s,  the time the internet arrived in my home along with “Ask Jeeves,” a search engine. They foreshadowed ending the need for updating my World Book Encyclopedia with a costly year book. I grew up with encyclopedias at my fingertips, as did my sons. No need to head to the library for research. Google still eliminates my need to leave home for research.

            Need a phone number, correct definitions or spelling or words, research on anyone or any event, self-diagnose illnesses, cure for gnats in your home, simply Google it. Voila! The answer appears on your screen. If I had realized how Google would eliminate privacy, I would not have written under a pen name.  Google was in its infancy when I submitted my early works for publication. I wanted anonymity in case my work bombed—no need to ruin or mar my maiden or married names. Google has made anonymity a thing of the past.

 All a search engine does is list information. Wise researches learn to check the source of the article or even the information. However, even knowing the source isn’t always helpful. If a restaurant only has one bad review, remember, no one can satisfy everyone all of the time.  The infinite numbers of customers, patients, and/or clients who are satisfied rarely take the time to say so on various Google sites. I am beginning to think that there should be a limit to bad reviews remaining posted.

 Once, I Googled my father’s name only to discover information on Ancestry Dot Com also is not one-hundred percent reliable. Their site had him born in Russia years before his real birth in Brooklyn. His marriage and death information was correct, which is why I knew the researcher never knew my father. After calling them, I learned that if someone posts false facts on a family tree, and then copyrights it through Ancestry Dot Com, the incorrect information shows up on a search.

 Two map sites, Google Maps and Map Quest, do not always suggest the best routes. I had to go to Miami Beach recently. I am familiar with the area, but Googled the address I needed. Both sources advised me to exit the parkway too far north. I called a friend who gave me the correct exit from I-95. My GPS was wrong by one exit, not two like the Google sources were. All routes were technically correct, but mine was at least 15-minutes faster.

But most of the time, if I check the source especially with respect to researching the facts behind a docudrama or foods that can help or hurt certain physical conditions, Google has become my “right arm.” My husband gets annoyed with what he calls my Google addiction, especially if it ruins how a television series (he prerecorded) ends—which I recently did.

The day after that fiasco, I could not find my glasses. I asked him to help me. He did—kind of. “Google it,” he said, and left the room.

            I guess there are some answers, right or wrong, not yet posted on Google.

Keyless Nightmare

At one time, every key I needed was on one ring, including the key to my classroom.  This helped me avoid having to spend hours each day retracing my steps, looking for my keys. I could not start my car unless I had all my keys, so there was no chance any needed one would remain in a purse I used the previous day. If I had to get into my parents’ home and eventually my children’s, there was no chance the key wasn’t with me.

Throughout my teaching career, I had a spiral stretchy on my key ring. After I parked at work, I opened my belt—those were the days my tops were always tucked into my pants—and slipped it through the stretchy. I was able to open every door and file cabinet throughout the day without once having to search for my keys. Never were my keys left in the ladies’ room or in the teachers’ planning room. They did not come off of my belt until I returned home at the end of the work day.

The only snag to my plan for a stress-free life with respect to my keys was the whereabouts of them within my home. I had (and still haven’t) disciplined myself to put them in the same place when entering the house. Since this was an ongoing problem, like finding my car in the supermarket parking lot, I made sure the keys were on top of my purse before turning in for the night otherwise I risked being late for work.

I shed the stretchy when I retired for only one reason. Friends said it didn’t make a positive fashion statement. After I drove to my destination, the keys were tossed into my purse. When departing, it was not unusual for me to have to dump the contents of my bag to find my keys. However, once I realized that what goes in eventually must come out and provide me with the necessary tool to start my car, I no longer fretted about my keys.

Last year, we needed a new car. My husband insisted we purchase a keyless one which meant I would need a fob to start the car. As long as it is near the vehicle, it could to start. Hubby’s rationing was that this engineering was the wave of the future, and if we bought an old-fashioned car that used keys, it would have less resale value. Cars come under his domain in our home—cooking and laundry is mine—so I listened. Big mistake.

First, the fob feels like a one pound lead weight. When I did my daily power walk with it attached to my other keys, it felt like I was walking with a weight in one pocket. Obviously, it had to come off the ring. For the first time in the 53 years I am driving, my house keys and car “key” are no longer on one ring. I keep the fob in my purse, but this in itself causes a problem. I have lost count of how many times I have left the house, locked the door, got in the car and it would not start. Angrily, I had to retrace my steps and retrieve the purse I carried the day before where I would find the fob nestled in a pocket.

Reverse the above frustration. I drove to our community’s clubhouse only to discover my keys needed to open the locked door never made the trip. Things have gotten worse, not better.

The other day I went food shopping. When done, I exited the store and headed for my car. I placed my hand on the magic spot near the trunk and nothing happened. I stood in the blazing South Florida summer sun and searched my purse to no avail. I dumped the contents into one of the plastic shopping bags. How on earth was I able to drive here?  Then I remembered Hubby Dearest was standing next to the car when I started it and backed out of the garage…

 

 

 

 

 

Words With Friends Friends

Words With Friends Friends

During my lifetime I have developed different categories of friends, as we all have. Like most people, I have family friends, social friends, work friends, organization friends, and neighborhood friends. There are inner circle friends—the ones on the wedding and special occasion celebration lists—and outer circle. They are people you like, but for a zillion reasons never you invited each other to dinner, but will send get well cards if needed.

During the last decade, I developed a totally new class of friends—social media friends. My Space was where I got my feet wet. On this site few folks used their real names for fear of the unknown. As my “friends” on this site fled to Facebook, our aliases were discarded. Clever folks found ways to circumvent the false names and eventually most of us “friended” each other on Facebook. These people became my core group of the newest category of friends, Facebook Friends. Not only did I have these fantastic literary friends to share with, but the best part of Facebook was allowing me to renew contact with relatives I otherwise would have lost touch with. Seeing their families as they grow, gives a new closeness that otherwise might never have developed. The highlight of my day is when my grandkids post pictures or are tagged in pictures. It gives Hubby and me the feeling that even though they are grown and miles away, we still actively share their lives.

About a year ago, Facebook introduced a new category of friends to me: Word With Friends friends. The scrabble-like game has become addicting. Even as I write this, I stop every few sentences because I am playing games with my Atlanta son and two of my friends. Luckily, none of us has a boss that can look over our shoulder.

Words With Friends has reunited me with a cousin’s ex, someone in a zillion years I would never even think of calling. (This cousin doesn’t read my blog, so cousin who does…it isn’t your ex J ) This gal is a Words With Friends “high scorer.” I’m getting there, but still have a bit to go. Anyway, I play Mah Jongg with another WWF high scorer. I handed her my cell phone—the one I bought so I could play WWF no matter where I am—and asked her to play against this person for me. She put in a 42 point word allowing me my first win. (But there have been others that I have won without cheating.)

I’ve also reconnected with friends from the past, some who were just acquaintances, others outer circle, but through this game, it seems like we were and still are BFF. What amazes me the most about this game is people who have no time to make phone calls, spend all night playing. I even sent an instant message to one friend during a game who I haven’t spoken with in months. “Time for a chat?” I wrote.

“Too busy,” she replied.

Facebook, which shows who is connected, showed me that this friend didn’t turn her lights out for hours. Communicating for her, like other loved ones, is best done by playing the game.

Last week it rained all Sunday, both here and I think Atlanta. For one hour back and forth I played WWF with my son, just as we once did on rainy days when he was a child—only then I had to pretend I “goofed” so he would win. Now when I win, I think he is pretending he didn’t see he opened a triple-word score for me.

Words With Friends has answered the question that has perplexed me about the younger generation since texting became the rage. How can we communicate without communication? (I know this is from Flower Drum Song) It’s a common complaint my generation has about the “texting generation.”  But now I know how—start a WWF game. When the player responds, you know he or she is alive and well. If not, if they are friends who have crossed over the border to phone friends, you can call and inquire about their health. Otherwise, assume the obvious—they played too well for you or you to well for them.

I would make a dinner party for all my WWF friends, but I’m not sure we would have much of a conversation now that we spend hours each night communicating with mainly two or three letter words, some even ending in “q.”

 

 

Camp Paws and Post Menopause

A friend just told me that the local Humane Society has a one-week day camp for elementary school-aged children. The experience gives the students an opportunity to  learn the needs of animals and how to care for pets.

 As I listened to my friend tell about the things her grandchild learned, my head was spinning with ideas. I thought that it would be a great idea for active senior communities like mine to run a day camp for local children. It should be done in conjunction with the Humane Society where the children would spend the first week.  By the end of the second week, which is the one spent in Seniorville, the young ones would realize that both pets and folks on Social Security have a lot in common.

Pets and old folks have unconditional love for little ones who are kind to them.  Pets give sloppy kisses to humans. Seniors give candy kisses (when parents allow) and real kisses also, unless of course the children are at the age where it will mortify them. It’s weird they never mind Fido’s kisses, but somehow Granny’s and Papa’s hugs can be embarrassing to preteens. 

Another thing seniors and pets have in common is we don’t like to be confined.  Dogs like going for long walks or to Dogie Parks. Children can accompany hosting seniors to local amusement parks or game rooms that permit children—or even on a neighborhood walk where they can share experiences. Verbalizing might be hard for some youngsters who usually only text the old folks in their lives. I’m sure they learned at Camp Humane Society that they had to talk to the pets because Fido doesn't text. After a week, the kids might even enjoy the archaic way of communication.

Pets love attention and have their spirits uplifted after an afternoon or evening frolicking with their owners. Likewise, grandparents glow when showered with attention from children…of any age. True, few grandparents can run as fast as Fido does after a ball, but many are still capable of shooting baskets or playing a decent game of tennis  with the visitors. For those “campers” who prefer water sports, they can join the elders who are participating in water aerobics or pool volley ball.  

Seniors who use a walker or cane don’t want to be excluded from fun just like a limping pup wants attention too. There are lots of table games that youngsters could enjoy playing  with their elders—and these games aren't restricted to those gray-haired folks with aches and pains.  Like pets, plenty of people of all ages and physical conditions prefer being in air-conditioned comfort. There are numerous other non-physical games for children of all ages such as Gin Rummy, Dominoes  Chess, Bridge, Canasta or Mah Jong. These games, like rules pets must learn, are filled with rules players must master.

In Camp Humane Society, Fido gets the treat at the end of each activity from the “campers.” The roles are switched in Camp Seniorville.  Here the visiting children would be receiving the instant gratification rewards from their “owners. “ In fact, in this one category, camping with the elders is quite superior to Camp Human Society.  In Camp Seniorville, the children can be taken out of the community for a treat at any time during the day, be it ice cream or an indulging shopping spree. I know firsthand, the hosting seniors will gladly spring for the bill!  Now y’all know that is something Fido would never do!

If the Key Fits

Thirty odd years ago, I sat in my much older sister-in-laws’ kitchen ridiculing her then in style “old-lady” Vera blouse, the same as my mother’s. She cautioned me that every generation has its “uniform” and mine was jeans with tops. She said as far as she and her peers were concerned, we we were wearing laborer's clothing as dress apparel.  Hubby and I still wear them, but so do my kids and grandkids, so denim pants certainly are not just for the over 65 set.

 For 35-years I have yet been able to pinpoint an “old people” style for mine. A very funny Facebook post a Facebook friend recently shared hit me like a brick as to my generations “uniform,” and it isn’t one to be found in clothing stores. She wrote about how she and her 3 young children exited a super market, piled into a van, packages and all, only to have one of her son’s say, “Mom, this isn’t our car.”

Clothes don’t define my generation. Our cars do. My young friend’s post was about vans, trucks, whatever you may want to call them. I guarantee you will find few seniors on Social Security driving 7-passenger vehicles unless the owners live near all of their grandkids and have to drive their carpools.

Fifteen years ago most of my peers drove a white anything-manufactured by Toyota, cars. Through the years we switched to gray ones but recently white full-sized cars by various manufacturers seem to be making a comeback as the “old-people uniform” automobile color.

As I’m writing this, my memory has been jogged about a parking lot incident with my friends about ten years ago.  My Mah Jongg group had met for lunch. Three of the five of us had driven.  After lunch, we returned to our same model, different year, cars. Two of us could not open the doors. The third, along with her passenger, started to laugh. “I guess I’m lucky,” she called to us. “My car is a different shade of gray.” 

So, sister-in-law up in heaven, you were right. Each generation has their uniform.  Do I dare say that “texting” belongs to the next generation? 

 

MELTDOWN

 

If my parents had a cell phone or computer, I would have had to resign from teaching in order to have enough time to handle their technology problems in addition to their doctor visits.  I haven’t actually clocked the hours spent on the phone with the Comcast tech support team and AT&T customer service, but it is getting to be a full time job.

 Immediately after I purchased my fancy phone and used my passwords on my cell phone to set up email accounts, dialogue boxes on my computer haunted me every time I wanted to open my email. Each time I went on, demands greeted me insisting I retype my password.  Each evening, after dinner, as Hubby sat down to watch television, I called Comcast tech support to find out why the computer wasn’t remembering the passwords. Computers, unlike humans, shouldn’t have dementia. Every night, someone else got access to my computer, fidgeted around with settings, and declared the problem fixed.  One young man informed me that my Outlook email passwords were different from my Comcast. He informed me that I must go to both sites each time I change my password. Wonderful. I didn’t know they were two different sites.

I have two Comcast email addresses. I questioned each tech person if the fact they had the same password was the cause of the problem. I was assured it was not. Finally, one expert, who must have reached the last step in the help manual, changed the passwords for each account. Viola!  Bye, bye dialogue box. Hello to trying to keep track of which account has which password.

My joy was short-lived. I could no longer get email on my cell phone. Now I discovered that just like Comcast can operate my computer from far off lands, AT&T can get inside my Galaxy phone. Guess what they discovered...the email account wasn’t set up properly.  Could that have been the cause of the password problem on my computer’s email? To make matters more frustrating, my Facebook, Google and Yahoo passwords had to be changed within a short time period. I forget the reason why and not sure if the Gmail account is the same as Google.   

My meltdown occurred when Hubby’s phone would not take a charge. We had no choice but to drive 30 minutes north to the only AT&T service center in our county. To me, that’s like having one service center for all of Manhattan. Thankfully no lines, and once again joy was short lived. The tech dared ask my spouse for the password for HIS phone. He looked at me. Tears were in his eyes.

 He was passworded out. Cell phones don’t have a “forgot  your password” feature for cell phones.

I could go on with another 500 words to tell you about the next 48 hours of password horror until his phone was working again, but it ended with the two of us having a huge argument over something we never, ever fought about before—who’s in charge of remembering which passwords.  It seems he thought that along with cooking, ironing and cleaning, remembering his passwords should become my job.

And yes, our phones and computers are functioning now, and I think better than me.

I'm Back

I’m Back

For several reasons, I stopped blogging a few years ago. First, if I blogged on other sites, they did not want to see the blog on my weekly post. The second reason—time.  After Hubby and I moved to Seniorville, we became busier than we were in our “previous life.” Our life is like living on a perpetual cruise ship.

The upside of our move only 45 minutes north of our old homestead was we were able to keep all of our lifetime Florida friends. The downside of the move, as predicted in a chapter in my book, is we go out to eat too much.  New friends, old friends, and recently retired to South Florida New York friends, and vacationing visitors fill our evenings almost nightly, especially during season when the “snowbirds” descend. Days find Hubby and me, not basking in the sun—we are Floridians—but either at meetings or playing Bridge or Mah Jongg (just me). We force ourselves to keep a few hours clear now and then for errands and chores.  A recently retired friend, one who thought he would be a nobody without his job, finally agrees he loves his new, busier than ever, retired life.

 Unless you live in what is justifiably called an Active Adult Community in South Florida, it is almost impossible to explain how those collecting social security can have a social calendar set months in advance.  Today’s generation of parents, whose kids are committed to umpteen afterschool activities, will be better trained for Seniorville. They are used to no free time. Our kids, I think, were the last generation that had some free time after school.

My writing has taken a back seat to my Seniorville social life, but, alas I must confess, my avid reading is also is sleep mode—the cause?—Words With Friends.  Instead of reading at night or while waiting for hours on end in various doctors and dentists offices, I now play this addicting variation of Scrabble with up to 20 friends and relatives at one time. The upside of this new habit is unlike socializing over wine and food, it is calorie free.

 

 

Sure Bet

  This week's blog is a post on Boomers and Books

http://boomersandbooks.wordpress.com/2011/12/10/sure-bet/


I know you will enjoy it so "hit" away!

Packing Pains

Sometimes a blog is written by just recording conversation. In this case, this blog, comes almost directly from my facebook stream. I deleted all the pictures and the real names. As with my satirical book, it is up to the people who think the funny vignette is about them to “out” themselves.

My post was motivated because I have recently been told that few wives or significant others pack for their husbands, leaving me to feel as if I’m a control freak. However, coordinating clothes is not Hubby’s strong suit. The last time he went shopping by himself was for suits, and that was almost 50-years ago. He came home with 3 identical brown suits, and brown is not his color, blues or grays are. Since they weren’t altered, the shopkeeper took them back and advised me to never let him shop or pack for himself. Stupidly, I followed her advice, which is why when I pack, he cleans up the kitchen or does other of my usual chores.

Here is my stream that I think will bring a smile to your face.

Eda Suzanne: In my next lifetime, my husband will do his own packing. I will give him a crash course on matching clothes and folding.

Three likes from literally around the globe and people half my age. OMG, this is not just a problem of my generation.

Sally: Hear Hear!!!! What a wonderful idea!!

Mindy: Good luck with that! I used to let Ed do his own packing and then he ended up with things that did not match or were totally useless. He is good at folding, so now I choose and he folds....

Eda Suzanne: Tomorrow we shall try that. Folding is back breaking.

Lara: Great idea! I would do the same...like to do that in THIS life...LOL. But John is color blind.

Sally: So's my husband...and he takes every advantage of it, too!

Annie: Lenny does all his own packing. If he doesn't pack, he doesn't go. I don't care what he looks like.

Jan: LOL...does he pack or does he go away naked? :My husband tries to coordinate his clothes when we travel, but as I said, he's color blind & he tries to fold clothes but after I look at them folded, I can't take it. I want him to look nice so he's not having everyone staring at him...LOL. But we do compromise. I match everything, fold & pack to go away & when we get home, he unpacks, puts the dirty laundry in the wash, puts away the sundries & the suitcases in attic. So I feel fair trade.♥

THE NEXT DAYS COMMENTS

Eda Suzanne: I was told by a pro 40-odd years ago, that if what he wore would bother me, I had to pack or supervise. Up until he retired, he was never home when I packed. Old rules are going to be revised. Annie, Lenny knows how to match clothes! Jan, now that my husband is home, he also helps with the unpacking. Mindy, I tired letting him fold. It will have to wait for our next lifetime. I don’t want to take a travel iron.

Bobbi: My hubby always does his own packing...because he says I never pick the right clothes (coincidence? I think not) ;-)

Sally: Magillan has these clothing folders. Look into them. They take up no space, and he can do it himself.

Eda Suzanne: Bobbi, your husband knows what the right clothes are—he sells them. Sally, the folding is not as hard as eliminating what I don't think either of us will really need. Packing when we remain in one climate zone is easy. It's knowing we need cold and hot weather clothes for this trip that has me nuts. I hate over packing because everything still needs to be washed or ironed or cleaned when we get back, even if I don’t wear it.

Lilly: Sounds to me as if most women have pretty much the same problem, in different ways. I don't see any men complaining about packing for a trip...Me, I get hysterical when I have to sit for an hour while everything gets tried on and shown for approval or disapproval...and the inevitable question - do I take THIS sweater or THAT sweater. I keep telling him that I'm not his mother...be a man...make up your own mind! But after 59 years I know that nothing will change. And yes, he's color blind.

Sandi: I will vote for throwaway clothes lol
Eda Suzanne: Can't afford to throw away. Packing for 2-week bus tour is easier than a 2-week cruise that changes climates. Lilly, I'm the fuss pot so I've learned not to gripe. He couldn't care less as long as his clothes are clean and odor free and he’s not cold. I’m like Jan. I have to look at him across the table.

Eda Suzanne: I'd love to cut and paste this as a blog.

Lilly: Eda...As I was reading all the posts, my thought was "I can feel a blog coming up" but you beat me to it. I've plenty more to say on the subject...as I'm sure most women (married women that is) do.

Hubby just read this blog and told me to add that he picks out better fresh fruit than I do. That is true. All is not lost. That is his job, but no matter how he tries to justify it, picking our fruits, putting the dishes in the dishwasher while I fold and pack, and taking everything that needs to go, to and fro the cleaner after we return, just doesn’t seem the same as folding and matching two-weeks worth of his clothes. What do you think?

P.S. – I am a control freak—but only when it comes to what he wears. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

If you are looking for something to give the over 50 set for the holidays, check out my book on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.com or read a sample chapter at:  

http://www.edasuzanne.com/

Oh, My Aching Computer

Contrary to popular belief, old people do not spend all day complaining about aches and pains. We kvetch more about frustrations with problems that didn’t exist ten—fifteen years ago. They all have to do with keeping up with the constant changes in technology and keeping our newest hi-tech acquisitions in the “best of health.”

I entered the computer age when I took my Masters in the 80”s. I remember being advised to buy an Apple 2C, and I would not have to pay to have someone type my thesis. I was misinformed that the purchase, which was double what a good computer would cost today, was all my husband and I would ever need to be part of the future. I’m thrilled the same person was not our financial adviser. We never imagined when we planned our first retirement needs budget when we were still very middle-aged, that we left out the high cost of staying connected. This is not a five-dollar bill that can easily be squeezed into a budget.

If you’re reading this, you know the monthly fees to enable my blog bounce around the world on various sights. But how many of you have two monthly exterminating services making house calls. One sprays stuff on my garden and in my house to prevent multilegged bugs from crawling around my home. The other kills the invisible bugs and viruses that somehow get inside my computer despite all the “vaccinations” that are supposed to prevent such mishaps. Instead of old people bragging that they have the “best doctor,” they now boast that their computer specialist is the best diagnostician in town. I’ve yet to hear people brag about their cable or internet carrier. Instead, the complaints about internet and cable services remind me of my mother and her sister complaining about whose aches and pains were worse.

Last month my husband went to the pool to exercise. He forgot to take his cell phone out of his pocket. Unlike his watch, the cell phone wasn’t waterproof. My husband doesn’t have a back up, old-fashioned phone book as I do. He enters numbers solely in his phone. I am sure his cousin, who only has a cell phone and as of yet there are no yellow pages for cell phones, is bummed out that he hasn’t returned her call. Ten years ago, neither my husband nor his cousin carried cell phones. Hopefully, since she is a Facebook friend, she will read this and call me.

Recently, one friend asked if I had received an answer from another friend to an email. “No,” I replied. “Which is weird because she has instant internet service on her cell.”
“She doesn’t know how to get to her email on her new phone, but she won’t admit it.”

Unlike my friend, I won’t bend to social pressure to “have the latest” and invest in a Smartphone that I know I’ll never learn to use. It took years for me to learn to retrieve messages on my present, very basic cell phone, and I’m still not able to enter phone numbers. For this South Floridian, investing in a Smartphone is like buying a snow sled for my grandkids to use when they visit. Life was easier for status seekers when all the needed were jewels, cars, or manufacturer’s labels. I’ve never known a Gucci bag that was attacked with a virus rendering it DOA.

Recently my husband announced that not only our cell phones, but our computers are near the end of their lifespan. “It just doesn’t pay to fix them again.”

He literally has spent more time in the last few weeks investigating what kinds of computers and phones meet our current needs and budget—lap top, desk top, or tablet—than what he should be investigating—which Medigap policy and which Medicare Drug Plan is best for us in 2012. (If you aren’t aware, these plans’ benefits change every year)

I questioned his priorities since, if we have to switch plans, it needs to be done soon. His answer explained why seniors now kvetch more about cell phone and computer problems than aches and pains. “How long will you last if both of our computers and our cell phones drop dead?”

Physically I’ll make it, and I’m in better (communication) shape than he is. I still have my little black phone book, which has landline and cell numbers—and unlike more and more people we know, we still have landlines.

Weighty Problems

Obesity runs in both my maternal and paternal families. Anyone who has my kind of genes knows the battle to always be able to zip stylish, tight-legged jeans is unending—unless you also are blessed with a gene for will power. Unfortunately, I don’t even have a smidge of a chromosome with this blessing.

When I find myself only wearing my husband’s sweatpants—and in South Florida that only works in the dead of our 6-7 weeks of winter—I head back to an “in” diet class. Well, winter is long over, and Hubby’s one lightweight workout pants are wearing thin, so I’m back attending what my husband calls “fat class.” The older I’ve gotten, regardless of how much I exercise—and we walk two miles almost every morning as the sun comes up—the slower the fat melts away. Loosing weight for me now is like cooking a turkey at 100 degrees.

The healthy diet I’m on follows the new food pyramid—lots of whole-wheat grains, fresh fruits, and veggies. The scale has gone down ten pounds, but, alas, my tummy isn’t happy since I started this diet. I’ve gone from looking slightly pregnant after each meal to looking as if I’m ready to give birth. In the beginning, since I was determined to shed the extra bulk, I was willing to put up with the post-meal and snack cramps because the scale was indicating progress. However, a few weeks ago, I woke in the middle of the night with labor pains. Since this is a physical impossibility, the next day I scheduled a doctor’s appointment.

I’ll leave out all the details of all the tests that were ordered because they are kind of gross as well as boring. I did have to be put to sleep for one test, and when the anesthesiologist approached my bed to get my medical history, I freaked out. “Is that tattoo on your arm real?” I asked. To me, there are certain professionals that somehow don’t lend themselves to sporting sexy tattoos and doctors are one of them.

The doctor stepped back a bit—body language signaling he didn’t care for my opinion of the artwork on his arm. “Remember, I’m the one putting you to sleep so you shouldn’t feel pain.” he said in a very icy "who does this old lady think she is" voice.

At that point, I kept jabbering away with inane flattering remarks, hoping to neutralize my insult. When he injected the sleeping potion into the IV, I hoped he no longer disliked me. I hadn’t canceled my Bridge game for that evening because having had the test previously, I knew I should be fine once I awoke. But now I was concerned I'd be asleep for hours.

Less than an hour later, according to the wall clock, I realized I must have appeased him. My doctor uttered the words all post cancer patients want to hear as soon as any test is done, “I don’t think it’s cancer…took culture…divaticulosus …IBS.”

The bottom line is I can stay on the diet, but the yummy store bought prepared foods that have sugar and/or sugar alcohol—the candy and cake that have made this diet so easy to follow—need to vanish from my pantry. I can have cake if I bake it myself and control the ingredients, and I’m determined to look svelte again, so I will. Breakfast will be the big challenge because dairy products and eggs, staples for breakfast on this diet, irritate my innards. I’m not one to make Canadian bacon, also allowed for breakfast protein, because Hubby hates the smell.

For a brief moment the next morning, I thought the problem of selecting a breakfast protein would be avoided. I stepped onto the scale as I usually do. As bad as the prep for the colonoscopy was, it did wonders. Somehow, in the 48-hour time period since I last weighed in, I had shed all excess bulk. The scale indicated there was no longer a need to diet. In lieu of numbers, it said, “low.”

Now even if I ignored the fact being suppressed in my subconscious that the scale needed a battery, minutes later when I attempted to squeeze into my goal-weight jeans, the truth would have been exposed— just like my tummy was bulging out of the two-inch gap between the button and buttonhole.

Life in 2011

YOU KNOW YOU ARE LIVING IN 2011 when...
I'd like to take credit for this one, but it would not be ethical. I rarely send jokes on, but this was one I wanted to share with all of my readers. 
WELCOME TO LIFE IN 2011


1. You accidentally enter your PIN on the microwave.

2. You haven't played solitaire with real cards in years.

3. You have a list of 15 phone numbers to reach your family of three.

4. You e-mail and text the person who works at the desk next to you.

5. Your reason for not staying in touch with friends and family is that they don't have e-mail or text addresses.

6. You pull up in your own driveway and use your cell phone to see if anyone is home to help you carry in the groceries...

7. Every commercial on television has a web site at the bottom of the screen

8. Leaving the house without your cell phone, which you didn't even have the first 20 or 30 (or 60) years of your life, is now a cause for panic and you turn around to go and get it.

10. You get up in the morning and go on line before getting your coffee.

11. You start tilting your head sideways to smile. : )

12 You're reading this and nodding and laughing.

13. Even worse, you know exactly to whom you are going to forward this message.

14. You are too busy reading to notice there was no #9 on this list.

15. You actually scrolled back up to check that there wasn't a #9 on this list

AND FINALLY NOW U R LAUGHING at yourself.

Grandma and Grandpa Cellophane

Warning: unlike my light blogs, this one weighs a ton



“My husband and I sat at the holiday table, surrounded by all of our loved ones—our kids, our grandkids—you’d think we’d be in seventh heaven,” my friend confided to me. “But it was awful.”

I could understand my friend’s family’s behavior if she and her husband’s personalities were toxic. Miserable and bitter seniors are understandably rarely visited by their family and/or have been deleted from speed dial by most of their once friends. But this couple has a slew of lifetime friends, and rarely have a trace of toxicity in their conversation.

My friend continued. “We felt as if we were watching TV. The cousins talked to each other, and my kids talked to each other, but we felt like that song, Mr. Cellophane.”

“I don’t believe you just sat at the table silently,” I said.

“We didn’t. After tickling each other under the table, we sang nursery rhymes softly to each other to prove that it wasn’t our imagination that we were being ignored.”

“And?”

“Not one head turned our way,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“Look at the upside,” I said. “Your kids were talking not texting.”

My friend’s story came on the heels of a request from a reader for me to write a blog about how the older people get in this country, unlike other cultures where seniors are revered, we to often become part of the wallpaper when the room is filled with people younger than we are. My reader added, “I had a lovely aunt who always cautioned us, as we got older, that it was important for the elderly to be ‘neat, at all times’—not to really worry about what clothes were being worn because we're invisible to the rest of the world—relegated to the back of the bus. Just be neat and don't speak too much because no one wants to hear what you have to say, because…what do we know?”

When it comes to formal seating arrangements or having dinner parties, my rule has always been that each person has to have something in common with one other person or the table will be a disaster. Be it a 10-year old or an 80-year old, they need someone who WANTS to talk to them. If the 10-year old has no playmate, he or she will probably have some sort of electronic gadget to keep him or her occupied. But what is the only 80-year old relative in the room do when their middle-aged hosts are clueless that they are ignoring him or her?

I have spent one month trying to write this blog since I received the request, trying to put a humorous spin, find a punch line, but every time I think I’m done, I hit “delete.” First I tried the theme, “be happy and sit back and enjoy your offspring, Be happy they’re happy,” but whose kidding who? Few people of any age enjoy being a spectator for hours unless they are watching a movie or show.

For a few blogs I focused on how unless you are on Facebook with family, you are out of the loop. I wrote about an editor of a magazine who wrote how guilty she felt when a favorite aunt died. The writer said it had been over five years since she made time in her life to contact the person. Hubby didn’t like this blog because it was too preachy and bitter.

With that bitter blog gone, I then focused on all the details of how a glamorous, middle-aged stranger sat with her back to me when we were seated next to each other at a recent party. All through dinner, I had to resist the urge to tap her on her shoulder, introduce myself, and lie. I fantasized telling her either that I was her boss’s Mom or someone old and famous. I imagined her being mortified when I would sarcastically tell her it was a pleasure to talk with her. I chickened out for fear I might unintentionally burn a bridge—she may be a nurse or doctor in our local hospital’s emergency room.

So, I will pose the question to my readers. What should very “with it” Gram and/or Gramps do if they find themselves “wallpaper” at family gatherings? We know the main character in Water for Elephants ran away from his nursing home to join the circus, but that option is not out there for most Mr. /Mrs. Cellophane family elders.

Marriage Super Glue

Hubby and I recently celebrated our 49th anniversary and are hoping all will remain well and we can celebrate our Golden Anniversary next June. In my grandparents’ time, a 50th anniversary was rare because of shorter life spans than today. Now, divorce, not death, is the reason many couples don’t make it to their fiftieth. Until recently, I never really could pinpoint why ours lasted and others I thought were made forever cracked. di

I’d be the biggest liar if I’ve said there have never been times that neither of us wanted to head for the hills. When our kids were little, when we kissed and made up, we teased and said we didn’t make enough money to support two households. By the time we were empty nesters, our justifications for living with each other’s imperfections were Hubby couldn’t do laundry or cook, and I couldn’t put gas in my car and hate taking down the trash.

We’ve both mellowed through the years as to things that will ignite a spat. One hot issue that’s still high on the list is the thermostat setting when we use the air-conditioner. Those of you who’ve gone to my website and read Thermostat Genie, a sample chapter from my book, know what I’m referring to. Hubby and I are totally incompatible when it comes to how cool we like the A/C. He is as thin as a rail and me—let us say I have a lot more insulation around my bones than he does, thus we have a 3-4 degree difference in our comfort zone.

My husband also insists the electric bill will go down if we move the thermostat up several degrees every time we leave home, even if we’re only going to be gone 10 minutes. I say the opposite. The other day, I had “had it” when I came home to a “sauna” —he ups the setting as soon as I leave—and called our power company. A lovely lady, who I told I owed a dinner when we finished our conversation, informed my spouse over our speaker phone, that unless you are gone at least 4 hours, it isn’t cost efficient. She explained that to do what he was doing—constantly changing the setting—could also ruin the calibration of the thermostat. The best thing she told Hubby was to leave the thermostat at 77— not his desired 79—and up it to 82 when we’ll be gone for long periods.

I then inquired about possible reasons our bill is usually higher than friends who have a bigger house than ours and keep their thermostat in the low seventies. Her answers were informative. We have his and hers computers and DVRs. The computers are in almost constant use as are the recorders. Our friends have one computer that is used perhaps one hour a day and, since they like the same television programs, only need one DVR. As much as we’re always looking for ways to save money, especially in today’s economy, we know this wouldn’t work for us.

The lovely lady on the phone did zero in on the biggest difference in our friends’ life style and ours that runs up an electric bill: the oven and stove. I don’t think they would notice if someone unplugged theirs. I cook. Not as much as I used to before moving to Seniorville or Hubby would like, but I still do cook. It isn’t unusual for people my age to fear outliving our money, and my spouse feels if we keep eating in restaurants as much as we do, we may run out of our money.

Dining out is a big part of our social life and the restaurants in my area have great deals to attract retirees. I maintain that the cost of eating out sometimes is less than if I bought all the ingredients and cooked the same meals. Last week we ate lunch out three times and dinner five, which is unusual for us. When the stock market started to roller coaster, I promised my spouse we would eat in this week. But that was before the phone call to Florida Power and Lighting and the phone call from friends who invited us to “run out” for a bite.
“The restaurant has a coupon which is too good to pass up.” I told my husband.

“Wasn’t this going to be our austerity week?” Hubby kind of growled while we were pulling out of our driveway.

I looked at him straight in the eye and said. “It is. I’m doing my part to cut the electric bill by not using the stove.”

He laughed. Humor is a great super glue for a marriage that has minor cracks.

If you like my blog, you'll love my book. It is a great gift for anyone who likes or needs a laugh.

Fair Game

 This week a Boomers and Books has asked me to write a blog for them.

For your pleasure please read my blog this week at  http://boomersandbooks.wordpress.com/

Let me know what you think by leaving a comment. 

Thanks

Eda

Voice ID Skills

A friend called to tell me how proud she was that she finally figured a way to know which of her grade-school grandsons she was speaking to on the phone. This friend is part of what I call the Skype generation of long-distance grandparents. Their grandchild voice-identification skills aren’t as sharp as those of us who became grandparents in pre-Skype days. We had no picture-clues to help know the owner of the barely audible voice on the phone.

My friend proudly shared that she pretends she forgets the name of their hockey team. So far neither of her grandsons have figured out what Grammy is up to, but she said her daughter’s laughter in the background signaled she knew what her mom was up to.

My children installed Skype in my home and theirs a few years ago supposedly so Hubby and I could join the Skyping Nanas and Papas. However, it was only used by my barely teen grandkids to communicate with their friends, (but monitored very carefully by the parents.) In my home, the Skype collected dust. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need a picture to tell me which grandson was on the phone. By this time, the crackly voice, a bit baritone yet still soprano, definitely belonged to the teenaged grandson. His younger sister’s voice was usually very cheery while younger brother tends be a bit serious sounding.

Besides the slight differences in my three grandchildren’s voices, as they grew older, their phone answering habits gave me better clues as to who answered the phone in their home. Only the youngest seems to enjoy answering the phone. His siblings check the caller ID if they are within five feet of the ringing object. Then only if they have the time to speak to the caller will they answer. Since neither of their parents, unlike me, is a phone-o-holic, this is not considered rude or unusual behavior in their home. As far as my adult kids—and my husband—are concerned, I waste too many hours each day on the phone “exchanging information” as I prefer to call it. I NEVER gossip! To them a phone is there for their convenience, not the callers. If it is urgent, they hear the message as it is being left by the caller and respond accordingly. To me, if a phone rings, it shall be answered.

Anyway, back to my point. In the last two years, things have changed dramatically. Ma Nature kicked in. Eldest grandson and his father now sound virtually identical, but their response to my query of “what’s doing” is a dead giveaway as to the voice’s owner. “Not a heck of a lot,” is what the father has been responding to that question as long I can remember. Eldest grandson can be counted on to say something like, “Ehh, nothing I guess.”

His seemingly lack of enthusiasm for idle chatter on the phone—typical of his age for boys, (although Hubby still distains it)— makes it hard to believe that when he is standing center stage, he has the voice and personality that this grandma feels will eventually enable him to knock Justin B. out of first place as a teen sensation.

As nature would have it, his younger sister’s voice changed when she hit her teens. The other day I spent two minutes talking to a lively female voice. I was positive it was my granddaughter. It wasn’t until I asked her a question about her classes and a laughing voice responded that she hadn’t been to class since graduating from law school 20 years ago that I knew it was my daughter-in-law.

From now on when I call their home, regardless of who answers, all I’m saying is, “Hi. What’s new?” and while hoping a word or two will tell me with whom I’m chatting, I’m praying someone quickly invents a very inexpensive voice ID contraption for my phone—especially since youngest grandson is set to have Mother Nature make his voice sound exactly like his big brother’s and father’s very soon.

Picture This

“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?