I have an idea of how of how the Facebook, Twitting, and Texting generation can save money: they should take out their telephone. They don’t need anything other than their iPhones. When I call my sons’ home, either they can’t find the telephone so they can’t answer it, or they’re too busy with their over committed lives to take a moment to say, “Hello.” I assume they realize that if there father or I were ill, I would leave a message.
It is obvious they feel they have more control of their time if they email me news or post it on Facebook. For the first time in my life, I can truly understand the joke about senior parents telling their kids over the phone that they were getting divorced. (The joke predates iPhones and caller ID.) Their kids immediately dropped everything to come and fix the problem. When they left, their old Papa said to their aged Mama, “Okay, I thought of how to get them here this time. Next month, you think of a way.”
This morning I called one son’s home. No one answered. Then I went to my computer to do some work. Within the span of half an hour, I received one email from their home and there were two postings from two different residents in the house on Facebook. I know because I checked to make sure my children were alive and well – after all, they were out of their house before nine on a Saturday morning, which is unusual for them.
Maybe next time they call and ask what is doing, Hubby and I should give one-word answers and make sure we get off the phone in less than 30 seconds – the time it takes to post on Facebook or write an email. Perhaps once they realize we won’t take up that much time of their very busy lives, they will actually use the phone to communicate with us again.
Years ago, teachers learned that the attention span for a great lesson was seven minutes – the average time between commercials on television. Now senior citizens must learn that our conversations must be limited to no more than 30 seconds if we want to actually hear the younger generation’s voices. I guess it is a problem in the classroom also. Getting kids to write quality work with more than 150 characters is probably a challenge also – especially if spelling counts.
I wanted to end this with a texting short hand comment related to the blog, but all I know is r u :) 2day i hope u r and I’m not even sure that I “spelled” that right.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
No Need to Phone :(
“My daughter told me your son is in Tennessee with his family,” my sister-in-law told me over the phone yesterday.
Since my son is addicted to a Blackberry and not a phone, I realized my niece must have read his Facebook “wall” and told her mother. I do have a Facebook account, but have never invited anyone I know to befriend me. However, I decided it was time. It didn’t take long to figure out I just needed to input his name and high school to bring up his page. Then I requested he approve me as a friend. He must be “on” 24/7 because he immediately accepted my friendship, which brought me to his page and then “wall.”
Instantly, the diary of his week’s vacation as well as a link to all of his pictures, complete with comments appeared on my computer screen. I felt as if I was with all of them. I repeated the process with his teenaged son and got the same results. Wow! Now I have a way to know not only what was going on in my son and grandson’s lives, but also what their friends had to say to them. Eavesdropping has become socially acceptable!
No wonder so many of their generation don’t feel the need to call friends and relatives they don’t see daily. All those who care about them need to do is read their status reports on Facebook or twitter or tweet or whatever. Only one sentence is needed to keep all their friends and relatives abreast of their current joys or frustrations and that is so much more efficient than four or five phone calls everyday. What a wonderful idea for the over-committed generation!
When done reading their walls, an old “guilt” sentence popped into my head. Knowing if I posted it on his wall he would have justification to delete me as a friend – even at my age I run the risk of embarrassing him in front of his peers - so I sent him an email and requested it be read with a heavy Yiddish/New York accent. “Ya got time to write all this and no time to call your parents?”
He didn’t call right away. He waited an hour.
Since my son is addicted to a Blackberry and not a phone, I realized my niece must have read his Facebook “wall” and told her mother. I do have a Facebook account, but have never invited anyone I know to befriend me. However, I decided it was time. It didn’t take long to figure out I just needed to input his name and high school to bring up his page. Then I requested he approve me as a friend. He must be “on” 24/7 because he immediately accepted my friendship, which brought me to his page and then “wall.”
Instantly, the diary of his week’s vacation as well as a link to all of his pictures, complete with comments appeared on my computer screen. I felt as if I was with all of them. I repeated the process with his teenaged son and got the same results. Wow! Now I have a way to know not only what was going on in my son and grandson’s lives, but also what their friends had to say to them. Eavesdropping has become socially acceptable!
No wonder so many of their generation don’t feel the need to call friends and relatives they don’t see daily. All those who care about them need to do is read their status reports on Facebook or twitter or tweet or whatever. Only one sentence is needed to keep all their friends and relatives abreast of their current joys or frustrations and that is so much more efficient than four or five phone calls everyday. What a wonderful idea for the over-committed generation!
When done reading their walls, an old “guilt” sentence popped into my head. Knowing if I posted it on his wall he would have justification to delete me as a friend – even at my age I run the risk of embarrassing him in front of his peers - so I sent him an email and requested it be read with a heavy Yiddish/New York accent. “Ya got time to write all this and no time to call your parents?”
He didn’t call right away. He waited an hour.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Computer Swallowed Grandma
I never cut and paste or even send jokes on but this one is worth it!
The computer swallowed grandma.
Yes, honestly its true!
She pressed 'control' and 'enter'
And disappeared from view.
It devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm.
I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I've even used the Internet,
But nothing did I find.
In desperation, I asked Jeeves
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found 'online.
'So, if inside your 'Inbox,'
My Grandma you should see,
Please 'Copy,''Scan' and 'Paste' herAnd send her back to me.
This is a tribute to all the Grandmas
who have been fearless and . .. . .
Learned to use the Computer......
WE are the greatest!!!
The computer swallowed grandma.
Yes, honestly its true!
She pressed 'control' and 'enter'
And disappeared from view.
It devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm.
I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I've even used the Internet,
But nothing did I find.
In desperation, I asked Jeeves
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found 'online.
'So, if inside your 'Inbox,'
My Grandma you should see,
Please 'Copy,''Scan' and 'Paste' herAnd send her back to me.
This is a tribute to all the Grandmas
who have been fearless and . .. . .
Learned to use the Computer......
WE are the greatest!!!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
It's All in a Name, Or Is It?
When I started to write blogs and send essays to newspapers, for many personal reasons I desired anonymity – and still do. Hence, the use of a pen last name for me and an invented nickname for my husband. However, a hot discussion has come up today about the use of “Hubby” for my other half. During the last several years, I noticed many writers were using it, albeit my generation never did. I wanted to be up to date in my vocabulary and adopted it.
After reading my first blogs, my husband’s much older sister called me and told me the word irritated her so much that she found she could not read the anecdotes. “My brother is not the “Hubby” type she insisted. He sounds like a henpecked wimp, and he’s not.” Since lately she has begun to complain about everything, I ignored her criticism.
Today the discussion took on another turn. My blog readers Hubby’s age – and he is a few years older than me – just a few – don’t like the word. Women, near my kids’ age and younger, use it or don’t object to it. This is a predicament. Characters’ names are important, even in a humorous book. I am almost ready to send in my manuscript –or self-publish – and need to decide ASAP. Being a true Gemini, I can’t decide. All day I’ve been craving chocolate worried that the use of the name “Hubby” could cause my book to be rejected by editors or readers.
Since it involves his public image, I decided to ask my husband of 47 years what he thought. He looked up from his newspaper and gave me the standard cliché that has been used by every husband and/or hubby for generations. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.”
Now I turn to my readers, what do you think of the word “Hubby?” Is it demeaning, endearing, or irrelevant? I hope you are not Gemini’s like me!
After reading my first blogs, my husband’s much older sister called me and told me the word irritated her so much that she found she could not read the anecdotes. “My brother is not the “Hubby” type she insisted. He sounds like a henpecked wimp, and he’s not.” Since lately she has begun to complain about everything, I ignored her criticism.
Today the discussion took on another turn. My blog readers Hubby’s age – and he is a few years older than me – just a few – don’t like the word. Women, near my kids’ age and younger, use it or don’t object to it. This is a predicament. Characters’ names are important, even in a humorous book. I am almost ready to send in my manuscript –or self-publish – and need to decide ASAP. Being a true Gemini, I can’t decide. All day I’ve been craving chocolate worried that the use of the name “Hubby” could cause my book to be rejected by editors or readers.
Since it involves his public image, I decided to ask my husband of 47 years what he thought. He looked up from his newspaper and gave me the standard cliché that has been used by every husband and/or hubby for generations. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.”
Now I turn to my readers, what do you think of the word “Hubby?” Is it demeaning, endearing, or irrelevant? I hope you are not Gemini’s like me!
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Welcome Wagon
A dear friend moved to a brand new, adult community around the same time Hubby and I moved into a ten-year old, “seniorville.” So far, the main difference between buying a resale and buying in a new community is the way your neighbors greet you. Most of her neighbors were unpacking just like her, so she wasn’t flooded with high-caloric, home-baked goods as Hubby and I were. Therefore, if you want to keep your weight down, it is better to buy a new house in a new community.
Hubby’s a potential diabetic, watches himself 24/7, and has never understood my total lack of will power. He goes ballistic over my habit of putting left over desserts in the garbage disposal when company leaves. By now, he knows that if I don’t toss it, it will end up on my butt, so he no longer hits the ceiling when I get rid of the sweets.
However, I felt guilty about throwing out the homemade goods that were meant to welcome us to our new community – not that the gift givers would ever know it. Thus, you know who devoured the cakes one sliver at a time. Needless to say, the few pounds I lost while packing have returned. I have vowed if and when anyone new moves onto my block, I will greet them with a fresh veggie platter and diet dip.
Hubby’s a potential diabetic, watches himself 24/7, and has never understood my total lack of will power. He goes ballistic over my habit of putting left over desserts in the garbage disposal when company leaves. By now, he knows that if I don’t toss it, it will end up on my butt, so he no longer hits the ceiling when I get rid of the sweets.
However, I felt guilty about throwing out the homemade goods that were meant to welcome us to our new community – not that the gift givers would ever know it. Thus, you know who devoured the cakes one sliver at a time. Needless to say, the few pounds I lost while packing have returned. I have vowed if and when anyone new moves onto my block, I will greet them with a fresh veggie platter and diet dip.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Decorating Disaster
When we were first married, Hubby and I shopped for our furniture together. It was quickly obvious to me that we had different taste. We compromised on all choices. I was a new bride and enjoyed the experience of having my new husband take part in the decorating of our home. As each individual piece of furniture arrived, I was anything but ecstatic. Our living room was a hodgepodge of colors and styles that did not jell. Even the word "eclectic" was not suitable. My mother told me it was my fault. “What do men know about decorating?” she asked. “Besides, they forget what they picked two minutes after you leave the store.”
“The salesperson was a man,” I said.
“So? See what a mess he made of it. Men just know how to sell. Do you know any man that can match his socks to his pants?”
I could not argue with her on that point. My father wore white socks with everything and I was already coordinating my husband’s clothes.
Every time I vacuumed, I didn’t care if something was nicked. Silently, when my oversized aunt sat on the sofa, I hoped it would collapse. I fanaticized about painting the wood on the buffet a color I liked.
When we moved to Florida 35 years ago, a new friend gave me great advice. “The person who cleans is the one who must love the furniture. If not, you’ll get no pride when you finish your house work.” I listened and left Hubby home while I shopped for new living room furniture. He was busy starting a new business and was visibly relieved when I only consulted him when I was down to two or three choices that I loved. This time the finished product was one I adored.
Then we moved a few months ago, and my perfect furnishings looked vey imperfect in my new surroundings. Since you know who has time on his hands, guess who is shopping with me for new furniture. It has been almost 50 years since we last did this, and do you know what? NOTHING has changed. Hubby still has strong opinions on what we need and where we should buy, and I am compromising my views or just giving in as I did years ago – with the same results. The new items are arriving and instead of being ecstatic, I am down in the dumps.
I told him I have no choice but to change our house rules unless he lets me make the decisions on all the rest of the things we need. Since he loves everything we are getting, he will have to take over the dusting and vacuuming (my jobs), and I will take care of the outside – his responsibility. I love the gardens and the flowers that surround our retirement paradise, especially since our development’s fees include all ourside maintenance.
Hubby told me to go back to shopping solo and let him know when I’m down to two choices. He knows a good deal – when it comes to maintaining our home.
.
“The salesperson was a man,” I said.
“So? See what a mess he made of it. Men just know how to sell. Do you know any man that can match his socks to his pants?”
I could not argue with her on that point. My father wore white socks with everything and I was already coordinating my husband’s clothes.
Every time I vacuumed, I didn’t care if something was nicked. Silently, when my oversized aunt sat on the sofa, I hoped it would collapse. I fanaticized about painting the wood on the buffet a color I liked.
When we moved to Florida 35 years ago, a new friend gave me great advice. “The person who cleans is the one who must love the furniture. If not, you’ll get no pride when you finish your house work.” I listened and left Hubby home while I shopped for new living room furniture. He was busy starting a new business and was visibly relieved when I only consulted him when I was down to two or three choices that I loved. This time the finished product was one I adored.
Then we moved a few months ago, and my perfect furnishings looked vey imperfect in my new surroundings. Since you know who has time on his hands, guess who is shopping with me for new furniture. It has been almost 50 years since we last did this, and do you know what? NOTHING has changed. Hubby still has strong opinions on what we need and where we should buy, and I am compromising my views or just giving in as I did years ago – with the same results. The new items are arriving and instead of being ecstatic, I am down in the dumps.
I told him I have no choice but to change our house rules unless he lets me make the decisions on all the rest of the things we need. Since he loves everything we are getting, he will have to take over the dusting and vacuuming (my jobs), and I will take care of the outside – his responsibility. I love the gardens and the flowers that surround our retirement paradise, especially since our development’s fees include all ourside maintenance.
Hubby told me to go back to shopping solo and let him know when I’m down to two choices. He knows a good deal – when it comes to maintaining our home.
.
Friday, June 26, 2009
It's What You Make of It
Some people are afraid to retire because they fear the highlight of their day will be doctor’s visits. Now that both Hubby and I are retired, I can testify that it is not true. The highlight of our day is when we find our car in a parking lot. However, doctors’ visits are definitely on the list of things we and many other retirees do that helps fill the hours of the day. Believe me it is not by choice. I am beginning to think that some doctors believe old folks love the decorations in their offices so much they permit patients to sit there from one to three hours in order to have time to fully enjoy each masterpiece. Sometimes I wonder if the doctors have an “interest” in the sellers of the artwork on their office walls and that is the real reason they have us sitting for so long. Are they really subjecting their patients to subliminal advertising for the mass produced artwork that adorns the office walls? If they are, it works. Many people – including me – have similar scenes hanging in our home to the artwork in the examining rooms.
I know all the excuses for the wait, and since the doctors I see do spend time with me, I don’t complain. I’ve learned to pack snack for Hubby and me so our blood sugar doesn’t drop and cause dizzy spells. Because of normal aging health problems, doctors’ visits are now a frequent activity in our daily schedule. But, because we are retired, when we leave the doctor’s office, we don’t have to head to work for the rest of the day. Instead, we can head to play at whatever we feel like doing!
I know all the excuses for the wait, and since the doctors I see do spend time with me, I don’t complain. I’ve learned to pack snack for Hubby and me so our blood sugar doesn’t drop and cause dizzy spells. Because of normal aging health problems, doctors’ visits are now a frequent activity in our daily schedule. But, because we are retired, when we leave the doctor’s office, we don’t have to head to work for the rest of the day. Instead, we can head to play at whatever we feel like doing!
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