Author Archives: claudiajustsaying

Mommy’s Jumping Jellybean

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My daughter, Janine will turn forty on May 19 and hopefully this post captures how special she is to me. . . . just saying I love you, Mom

Aging & Attitude

   My daughter phoned a few weeks ago and after a good hour-long conversation told me, holding back tears, I was on her gratitude list. It was not Mother’s Day but it was the best Mother’s Day present ever.  I hung up the phone, and put a long list of ‘if only I had’ in the trash, to reminisce about my little girl.

She was not a fussy infant and slept through the night at six weeks, never cried or climbed out of her crib, and woke with a cheery “Morning.”  By the third call, I would have her in my arms. Asked if she would give baby Donna her bottle, Janine said yes and drank from a cup. She potty trained easily wanting to wear big girl pants like Christie.

Most days, after playing in the park we lingered on the stoop outside to wait for Daddy. At two and a half years old, Janine would climb the brick steps, teeter across a cement ledge and jump to the ground holding my hands. She was long and lean, like a green bean, and called Beaner  Her incessant jumping gave birth to the rhyme, J is for Janine, Mommy’s jumping jellybean.  I struggled to match  my daughter’s  energy and enthusiasm.

The summer of 1980 we traveled to Chicago, by sleeper train, to visit Aunt Judy and Uncle George.  Independent Janine maneuvered the way from our cabin to the dining car, bouncing side to side. You could not hold her hand. The dining tables wore white linen table cloths, and the wine served in a stemmed glass.

I have a vivid picture of Janine sitting in a Winnetka ice cream parlor, her chin even with the table, ready to place her order, a chocolate cone. Uncle George, who was treating, suggested a dish of ice cream might be safer. Determined, she stately sweetly, “I want a cone,” to Uncle George’s continued feeble attempts to persuade her other wise. There was no terrible two-temper tantrum only the pointing of her pinky and index finger like devil horns saying, repeatedly, “I want a cone.” Uncle George did not comment after her pretty dress was covered in chocolate.

The first day of  kindergarten she wore a sucker of a rhinestone pin given to her by Great Granny B for dress up, and left the house saying; “Mom, I’m going to be the prettiest girl in the class.” My response, “Yes, you will.”

Early on, she wanted to know if you went to college to be a cocktail waitress, to which her father and I had no reply, amazed at her insight that attending college and waitressing somehow went together.

These days, Janine is miles away, and missed. People notice her kindness, generosity, quiet determination, and independence. She pounds the streets of New York City and a chorus joins me in cheering, J is for Janine, Mommy’s jumping jellybean.

Thank you daughter, for loving me.

                                                                                          …. Just saying

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Ha Ha Baby Boomers

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Aging & Attitude

Statistics show that as you age you laugh less. The elderly lose their sense of humor, no Shit Sherlock! What is there to laugh about?  We cannot see, cannot hear, and cannot remember.

A recent News Journal article informs us of the latest national disaster, sarcopinia, the wasting away of the elderly. Who needs a new word we cannot pronounce, and reminds us of things, we do not want to remember.  It is no surprise, the elderly feel depressed, and lose humor.

I heard that if you cannot get out of the car or off a chair, it is from muscle atrophy. So I started going to the gym, now have muscles and can get out of the car, couch or chair easily.  I just cannot straighten up once I am standing. I am stiff and cannot unbend.  I have termed the condition de-stiff-i-tiz-ing. It is not an official medical condition but most Baby Boomers suffer with it.

We were out to dinner, a table of ten, dear friends who shall remain nameless. After paying the bill, everyone stood to leave and a uniform moan ricocheted off the restaurant walls. A few of us were quick to laugh, covering the additional groans people spewed as they hung to the back of chairs, shook legs awake, and de-stiff-i-tized to reclaimed stature. There was no giggling.

Men actually laugh less and stop laughing sooner than woman, around fifty. (Mr. Wonderful sports a Grumpy tattoo, gotten on his fiftieth birthday.) That statistic may change once the numbers are in on Viagra, although after four hours a man could permanently lose all ability to chuckle.

The humiliation does not end.  A woman attending a wedding went outside to smoke, after extinguishing the cigarette with her foot, bent over to pick up the butt and toppled in her kitty cat heels. Fortunately, her dress did not blow over her head and no one was around.

This never happened to grandma. She could smoke indoors, did not worry about green and thought gym was a man’s name.

So here are my tips for Baby Boomers. (Will someone think of a better term, PLEASE)

  • Replace old toilets with new Hi-Boy’s(the taller  ones).
  • Park in the same spot at the mall everytime.
  • Write down the make, year, and plate number of both cars you own and keep the information in your wallet. (Forgetting where you parked is one thing, forgetting what you parked is another.)
  • Stop telling people you do not remember their name.  They do not remember yours either.
  • Do not smoke when wearing high heels.                                                                                             
                           …. Just saying

Betty Blasé and New Horizons

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Aging & Attitude

“I’ve become blasé,” said a woman at the New Horizons Brunch for new members, ending our conversation that threatened to become passionate. She smiled, and took a step back to distance herself from me. She wore ‘big-girl’ shoes with a large fake rhinestone separating her first two toes.

“Blasé what a wonderful word,” I respond, but fail to keep her engaged. The crowded breakfast nook engulfs her lack of interest. Soft wrinkles languish her face, her tone aloof as she snaps her neck to suggest she was not always apathetic, it is an acquired skill.

She wears it well like a sophisticated article of clothing, dance attire.  I want to be blasé. Blasé could be  equivalent to Botox or Juvederm injections and cheaper.  Her skin glows.

My mind escapes to a fantasy world and I morph into Betty Blasé, a new and improved self.  When motorists drive in my trunk during the day, I flip the rearview mirror to ‘night-vision’, instead of yelling, “wrap yourself around a tree, see if I care,” and as they speed by, adjust the air conditioning, calmly.

I feel in control of my emotions and straighten my back to stand a little taller. The room is decorated in damask lined drapes hung high upon the wall and sparkling glass tables.

Surely, I can learn indifference when the Bagger in Publix double wraps my chicken in plastic after I hand him cloth and painstakingly explained the chicken gets naked next to my eggs and butter at home in our refrigerator.

Several New Horizon members drift towards the front door ready to leave.  I promise myself the next time a group of kids covered with tattoos and reeking of profanity pass by I will NOT mumble, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

I exchange goodbyes with the host and mosey towards my car thinking, it is conceivable to yawn at newspaper stories debating those guilty of pet abuse; Obama, who ate dog or Romney, who transported Seamus, a pet, crated on a car roof.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Just Saying

 


Tell Me What Rain Smells Like

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Photo by Nikx

The Smell of Rain

Aging & Attitude

Steel metal colored clouds consume the sky and travel my way. The sun disappears behind them, and the sky turns dark.

Lightning cracks the sky and the sound pierces my ears.

The rain falls heavily, straight down and creates a blur; like at Niagara Falls, a sheet of rain cascades off the roof gutters and I recall  standing on “The Maid of the Mist” weathering the streams of water surrounded by rock.

The pinging rain is musical and comforting.

Floridians call it “big rain,” and I pull to the side of the road, the visibility is so poor.  It is not a monsoon, a season of precipitation; although the rain in April and May seem endless.

This daytime rain smells sweet.

A smell so fragile I inhale deeply to guess its fragrance. It is clean and crisp like mountain air but not strong. It is not vanilla, nor any other spice and less subtle than an herb.

Childhood memories; searching for a four-leaf clover, cartwheels, and skipping home to snack on Wonder bread, buttered then sprinkled with sugar, permeate my mind.

Coolness surrounds my shoulders and I close my eyes to relish the moment and the smell of rain, but cannot capture words.

What do you think rain smells like?

We’ve Fallen & We Can Get Up

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   Mr. Wonderful, my husband of forty years, is wonderful, mostly.  He is my househusband, does most of the food shopping and cooking, and dusts if I ask ‘pretty please’. I’m loving it. He seems content, and has heightened status among women when they learn all he does. Although, the guys turn up the TV volume when he becomes the topic of conversation.

   I make a point of showing my appreciation. Today I sat on his lap, gave him a nice kiss. Enjoying the attention he playfully embraces me, arms behind my back. I slipped my arms under his shoulders and interconnected my fingers around his back nervous we might fall. Like Fabio on the cover of a romantic novel, he curves my back across his knee, and we topple.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t tell. Are you okay?”

“You’re lying on my arm, I can’t move.”

“You’re lying on my chest; do you think I can move?”

 We’ve fallen and we can’t get up.

 “Claudia, you’re killing my arm, you have to move.”

 Granted his arm is underneath me, taking the bulk of the fall; his 200 lbs pressing my 135 lbs into the floor. But I am flattened like a pancake too and cannot move.

  So I quip, “Let me see if I can bench press your 200 lbs. with my nose.”

 “You’re killing my wrist, move!” He says, with a loud little boy in pain tone, to his voice.

  Wondering if I am able to take in air, I say, sweetly, “Don’t panic, yet. Where’s your other arm?”

  “What other arm?”

  “The other arm attached to your body. I’m lying on your right arm, where is your left?”

  He pauses at length to consider the possibility, and responds “You mean this one,” raising his left arm above his head.

  Relieved, I suggest he use it to lift himself, allowing me to push up so he can retrieve his right arm.

  He does. I move and guess what, we have fallen, but we can get up.

                                                                                                                                    …just saying 

Vintage Vanity

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Aging & Attitude

I never wore an itsy bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini. I wore a one piece swimsuit with a zipper up the back that I could swim in. I loved that pink and white plaid bathing suit. A darker pink piping set off the waist, and it was fully lined. That was during my teenage years when we swam down at Puffy’s creek or at Jones beach on Long Island.

I never owned a Rabbit fur coat. I had a fake Leopard fur coat bought on sale in Macy’s department store. The large collar and hem trimmed in black fake fur.  This Bo Derek style outer wear was stored in a clothing closet and admired when I opened the closet door, too good too be worn.

I never owned a London Fog trench coat.  I wore a navy blue raincoat with an empire waist and hood, purchased at Lerner’s.  I had black patent leather go-go rain boots and kept dry with a bubble umbrella. I have a picture, taken at the Bronx Zoo, of myself wearing this outfit, and remember feeling quite pleased with my look including the shag wig, I wore.

I never wore jeans, stirrup pants were my favorite, and proud to be the first to wear bell-bottoms, in my dorm. These orange pants coordinated with a gold and orange box plaid mini-skirt and a matching gold crepe blouse. The blouse had flounce sleeves with military buttons on the cuffs, and a wrap around neck sash that tied in a bow. I can picture the outfit in Alexander’s store window on Fordham road in the Bronx and still smile.

I never avoided looking in a mirror, til now. The reflection is unrecognizable and I hear myself saying, “Why does that woman look so familiar?” aloud, and realizing it is me, worry about Alzheimer’s.

I never thought I’d wear elastic waist pants, funny hats or moan getting up from a chair.

I never thought myself good-looking, was never boastful, conceited, or big-headed, but loved those outfits and the way they made me feel.

Damn, I guess it is too late to be vain.

                                                                                      . . . Just Saying

Global Positioning System & Your Hippocampus

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Aging & Attitude

“Have you heard about Todd?”

“No, what about Todd?”

“He went out walking and fell.”

“Oh my God, how?”

“It’s a long story, has to do with the hippocampus.”

“The hippocampus, what is that?”

“You never heard of the hippocampus, the part of your brain that remembers things, especially new stuff.  If you move to a new neighborhood and go out for a walk, how to get back home. Where you parked at the mall or the date of a doctor’s appointment.  Well Todd’s hippocampus is shrinking, just like, he used to be six foot one and is now five ten.  It’s part of the aging process. Remember “The Graduate” and Dustin Hoffman learning that the key to the future was plastics, the hippocampus is now the key to remembering, or so it seems.

“Are you sure? I read AARP’s recent article “Age Proof Your Brain,” It lists ten things, and I don’t remember reading about any hippopotamus…

“That’s because it’s new information, your hippocampus could already be damaged. Ever have hypoxia, heart attack, respiratory failure, sleep apnea or near drowning?  They discovered new benefits to jumping up and down for extended periods. Exercise may slow shrinkage of the hippocampus and specifically the part that passes new information into permanent storage.

“Enough, I’m getting a headache. Tell me about Todd.”

“Well, it seems Todd goes on walks and is gone forever. Apparently, he gets lost in the neighborhood. Marilyn suggested he charge the GPS and take it with him.”

“Todd’s not that old to be that forgetful and who is Marilyn?”

“Marilyn. . . his wife.”

“Marilyn isn’t his wife. He’s married to Barbara.”

“Marilyn’s his wife, do you want to hear what happened? So Todd, by the way he’s almost eighty, goes for his walk and after hitting “GO HOME,”  on the GPS, gets dizzy from recalculating, falls down and hits his head.  A neighbor called 911. They took him to Emergency, eight stitches and he is still confused.”

“Todd’s not even fifty. His wife is Barbara, I invited them to dinner. What did the doctor say?”

“Stop using the GPS and see his regular doctor in two weeks.  It’s probably his spatial intelligence. There is evidence these GPS systems are effecting everyone’s ability to navigate, not just us Baby Boomers. I’m talking about the Todd and Marilyn Smith on the corner.”

“There’s another Todd on this street? How will they get to the doctor’s office without the use of a GPS?”

“Barbara’s thinking of taking a taxi.”

“You mean Marilyn, right?”

“Whatever.”                                                                                         

                                                   . . . Just saying

Homeless in Apalachicola

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Aging & Attitude

   My head turns with the slam of the restaurant’s screen door and I watch a woman my age, seat herself at an empty table for eight. It feels odd and she is toting too many bags.

Uninterrupted, our waitress listens to our comments and says, “Um, one got me bad the other day. I’m still scratching,” and puts menus and glasses of water on a blue tablecloth, its wrinkles accented by a small vase of pink plastic flowers.

“I’m Rachael, and I’ll be your server.”

We are in Apalachicola, a small fishing town located in the Florida Panhandle, and were sitting outside to watch a river sunset when the no-see-ums attacked and forced us indoors.

Always intrigued by the name, Apalachicola, Mr. Wonderful has surprised me with a stay at The Coombs Inn, a Bed & Breakfast.

“Where are you all visiting from? Rachael inquires, a pencil and spiral assignment pad clutched in one hand. She is wearing an orange t-shirt with Caroline’s Restaurant in cursive letters angled across her chest, and looks as incongruent as the wrinkled tablecloth.

“Ormond Beach on the east coast. We’re retired.”

“Now that’s a long haul, first time in the Oyster Capital? I bet you want a dozen fresh oysters.” She says with the enthusiasm of one who had a good night’s sleep.

We agree and Rachael says, “I’ll get that started and be back for your order, take your time now, no hurry.”

Apalachicola is a curious mix of old and new. A throwback town that looks loved and lived in. The Victorian homes are restored; most with tin roofs. The retail signs are not deliberately retro, just never replaced. You can enjoy gelato made with Florida mango, at the Apalachicola Chocolate Company on Avenue E as long as you get there before 5PM, after that all shops close.

The only new construction is The Water Street Hotel and Marina tucked at the end of Water Street alongside the commercial oyster boats. The smell of gasoline is strong as weathered oystermen smoking cigarettes, and wearing yesterday’s clothes fuel up.

I watch the woman actively arrange her bulging shopping bags, as another waitress slips beside her. I hear no conversation, suspect it is hushed and my curiosity heightens.

The woman’s bags are not new. The retail logos on several are disappearing.

She is served a class of white wine, instead of being asked to leave or move to a smaller table, and stoops over a menu as though she needs glasses. All day travel or slept-in creases distinguish the back of her jacket.

Rachael brings the oysters, takes our order and hightails it back to the kitchen.

Mr. Wonderful continues talking, reviewing the day; a visit to St. George Island and the lighthouse.  Our conversation with the museum volunteer who informed us there are eight hundred and some year round residents on the island now, and house prices have dropped five hundred thousand to one million dollars. Yes, dropped, she reaffirmed and suggested we visit the Nature Center, which is free and contains a beautiful mural of the Gulf area.

Rachael returns with house salads and casually asks, “Have you been to Panama City or Mexico Beach?”We have and recount their beauty. The blue-green gulf water rolls in to smooch the shore,its sand the texture and color of boxed table salt, unlike the ocean waves that slap the eastern coast to prove who is boss.

Realizing we have our salads but no silver, I look around to rob some from a nearby table. Surveying the area, I notice the woman stand abruptly and leave carrying her bags, the glass of wine untouched. I surmise she cannot pay and has come to her senses to explain the abrupt departure.

“Did you see that woman leave?” I ask Mr. Wonderful

“No. What woman?”  He answers.

“The one sitting by herself with all the bags, looks homeless.”

Rachael’s arrival with the entries interrupts our conversation and we ooh and aah about the fancy plating.

My meal is broiled grouper, shrimp, and bay scallops in reduced teriyaki sauce topped with wasabi, and sides of mixed vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes. Mr. Wonderful’s dinner is broiled scallops and a crab cake in lemon butter sauce, asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.

We are enjoying our meal when I notice she’s back, without any bags.

Keeping my head down to control my confusion I say, “Look, look in the corner, it’s her.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Wonderful says with food in his mouth.

“Maybe she’s staying at the motel next store and went to put her bags in the room. She’s probably mentally ill. Or even run away, had enough of everything,  I start to speculate when I notice her perfectly manicured hands flip open an iPhone, and conclude . . . maybe newly homeless.

The dinner is memorable, and the day outstanding.

I could do homeless in Apalachicola.                                                                                                                             . . .just saying

Stick Out Your Tongue for Rainwater

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English: drinking water

Image via Wikipedia

  Aging & Attitude

Remember sticking out your tongue to capture rainwater after a baloney sandwich, if a glass of Kool-Aid was not available. The strong visual enters my mind reading an article in our local paper, The News Journal, by Tom Knox. The headline, “Ormond Beach start-up hopes to tap bottled rainwater market,” hints of an entrepreneurial spirit enhanced by a Made in the USA theme and intrigues me.

Florida has one of the highest unemployment rates in the country, and needs to create jobs. Larry Curran, the retired accountant written about in the article, likely shares my view that retirement is highly overrated. Larry is 64 years old and opening a bottled-rainwater plant.

I keep reading.

Curran concerned about manufacturing plants polluting groundwater near his neighborhood, began using rainwater for swimming to showering and eventually drinking water. He shared 5-gallon buckets with his neighbors and developed a bottled rainwater business plan after researching collection on-line. His company, Choose Rain, sells a 16 oz bottled rainwater for $1.15 locally at Love Whole Foods, Peggy’s Whole Foods and Michael’s Health Food. Curran is in the process of moving into new headquarters and seeks additional funding, so consequently buys bottled rainwater for his label, Choose Rain, from Texas Rain.

I purchased several bottles at Love Whole Foods in Ormond Beach. The taste is different; subtle, sweet, almost tasteless, like water, before we started taking out and putting stuff in.

A message on the bottles reads, “When water evaporates, the tiny drops mingle in the clouds, like nature’s spa in the sky. There they soak up the sun’s purifying UV light, get zapped by the lightning’s ozone, and then all nice and clean head back to earth.  At our Welcome Station we catch the rain before it hits anything nasty on the ground.”  And continues to explain nature’s process is replicated here on earth before put it in a biodegradable bottle.

Larry can be contacted at Larry@chooserain.com.

Texas Rain has a plant in Smithville Texas.  “We believe it’s the largest fixed capture rainwater collection site in the world,” says David Schraub, Founder, President, CEO, and self identified “mad Scientist,” and environmentalist with additional ideas about solar energy. You can capture the true scope of the company in this video http://www.kxan.com/dpp/living_green/drink-rainwater-to-boost-solar-power . What they do is impressive.

However TankTown, the company that bottles Cloud Juice, in Dripping Springs, Texas, has been collecting rainwater longer, since 1994. You got to love the perspective; that all water is rainwater at some point, so why not capture it before it goes into the ground and is subject to pollutants.

Richard Heinichen, Founder, says, “There is nothing in rainwater. It is naturally soft and made safe for drinking easily and without chemicals.”

Who knew?

Heinichen claims a few firsts for the industry and that “water snobs say they taste a difference. You can order a case of Cloud Juice (16 oz. bottles) online for $11.50, about fifty cents a bottle.

Ordering rainwater is probably the way to go, the cost of a Tank Town home collection system for four people is between $10,000 and 15,000 dollars. You can purchase his book, “Rainwater Collection for the Mechanically Challenged for $15.00 and attempt the work yourself.  I like this man’s humor.

It is encouraging to learn we have water alternatives. Imagine if towns built rainwater plants powered by solar energy.

I am thinking differently about rainwater, how about you?

                                                                              . . . Just Saying

The Art of Saying Nothing

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                                                                                   Aging & Attitude 
Conversations at Vermillion

Conversations at Vermillion (Photo credit: JeanineAnderson)

Conversation is changing. Verbal communication is evolving and taking a new direction. The ability to converse for a significant period and say nothing is the trend. Notice that off colored jokes and heated discussions are a thing of the past. As small talk was through the 1990’s, saying nothing is an art form you are privy to if you experience these symptoms.

  1. Feelings of confusion, stupidity, or that you are old and simply do not understand.
  2. Low self-esteem after listening to a superior sounding conversationalist.
  3. Yelling “What are you freakin talking about?” in your sleep.
  4. Withdrawal from Face Book and other social media.

Please do not confuse this with the romance of saying nothing in Ronan Keating’s song “What I Hear When You Don’t Say a Thing” because that void clearly conveys passion and emotion.

Do not include the nothing, inquired of an advice expert, “What does it mean when you invite  women to date and they say nothing?”

That nothing says something, too.

The type of nothing Politicians use to avoid answering a question and turn the discussion to a character assault of opponents does not count either. Nor does the nothing created by a double negative i.e., “He didn’t say nothing,” (The double negative cancels the saying nothing out and you said something, we just do not know what.)

“He didn’t say anything,” is a legitimate form of saying nothing but not the one we are talking about of.

To acquire skill in saying nothing choose a topic, not safe and guaranteed non offensive like, weather, food, and travel, something slightly controversial, but politically correct. Create the impression that you are expressing an opinion or point of view that the listener cannot grasp, and you will say nothing successfully.

Filler words, such as; um, uh and you know, are prohibited, and considered cheating.

Now, I am practicing and far from an expert, but tell me, have I successfully talked about nothing?

. . . .Just Saying