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.